


Protected

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Series: Restored [4]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Abduction, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Drama, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-16
Updated: 2000-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sequel to "Restored".</i> Evil comes in many forms, and the Sentinel and Guide must always guard against it, no matter the nature or the risk...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protected

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to "Restored". It would really help to read "Restored" as well as its prequel "Destroyed" before starting this, otherwise I don't know how much sense it will make. I never intend to write AUs, but this doesn't quite take place in the Cascade we all know and love, and the people, police, Sentinel, and Guide are not precisely the ones you see on your TV screen. But I hope you can see where they're coming from. They've been through a lot...and it's not over yet...

"Jim!" Blair cried.

Jim Ellison shook his head, blinked, and ducked. The bullets flew over his head with millimeters to spare.

He clearly heard the kid who had fired the gun curse and toss the weapon aside, footsteps beating the tempo of a quick retreat. Another set grew louder as they approached. Hands grasping his shoulders, blue eyes peering anxiously into his. "Jim, you okay?"

"Dammit! Yes, I'm fine," he brushed off his partner's ministrations, "Damn!"

"Amen," Blair seconded quietly, "God, that was close."

Jim ignored it, "Damn it all! He got away!" He raised his fist, preparing to smash it into the brick wall of the alley. He could almost feel the pain, well-deserved punishment for letting the ball drop—hell, throwing it away—

He was stopped by his partner's sardonic tone, "Yeah, now _that_ would be effective." When he paused mid-swing Blair continued, "I mean, you can do your job so much better with your hand bandaged up, unable to carry a gun, confined to a desk for the next week..."

"Hell of a lot of good I'm doing out here!" he retorted. "I let him get away, I had him, and I just stood there and _waited_ for him to slip through my fingers—"

"You zoned," Blair stated calmly. "You were listening for the other one, you heard him at the window—"

"And I lost it," the Sentinel condemned himself flatly.

"You zoned. For less than a minute. If you want to point fingers it's my fault, I'm sorry—"

"You were busy dealing with his cohort," he excused his partner. "He's secured, right?"

"Handcuffed in the back seat. Jim, seriously, I'm the one to blame. If I had been a second later—God, he was aiming straight at your head..."

"Where else do they aim?" Jim asked rhetorically. Wasn't a two-bit hood in all of Cascade who wasn't fully educated on the function and usage of bullet-proof vests. Most criminals worth their salt owned one themselves. They only aimed for the chest when their bullets were armor-piercing.

This wasn't law enforcement. This was war.

He had just lost one of the battles. And now Sandburg was reacting—that seemed to be his strategy of late. Deal with the crisis with utter, calm, competency and then panic after the fact, when it hit just how much could have gone wrong. To an extent that had always been his way of handling situations, but the tendency seemed more pronounced now. Perhaps because he was older, slightly wiser and a little less hyper. Or perhaps because he now was facing crises with far greater frequency.

At any rate, Blair's pulse had sky-rocketed since the danger had passed. "Man, if he had hit you because you zoned—I should've been right behind you, God, Jim, I'm sorry—"

"Relax, Chief. I'm fine," Jim assured him. "And it's my fault, not yours. If I hadn't zoned—-

"You're the Sentinel, that's part of what you do," Blair wrote it off. "I'm your Guide; keeping you from zoning is what I'm supposed to do. I've been getting lazy, you haven't had any problems in a couple of weeks—"

"I thought I had it under control—"

"It's _my_ responsibility, Jim!" he shouted over his partner. "Look, it hasn't even been six months since you returned—since your senses came back. I should have a handle on how far they've recovered, but obviously I screwed up. This has nothing to do with you. Zoning is a natural function of a Sentinel's extended senses; it even has its place. It's my job to make sure it's only invoked when necessary. My error if you fall into it at a bad time—my fault, if you get hurt because of it."

"If you're going to take that angle—it's neither of our faults. Just a mistake. We don't have time to be passing the buck, we have duties," Jim reminded him.

"Fine. Fine," Blair replied. "Then let's get on them." He spun on his heel and strode back to the truck.

Casting one final look around the alley, acoustically probing the window where the gunner had ambushed him one last time, Jim followed his partner back to his vehicle. He realized as he left that not only had their argument wasted several minutes, most of his anger at himself had bled away, either thrown at Blair or faded into memory.

On second analysis, he concluded that had probably been Sandburg's purpose all along.

He heard the radio crackle to life and hurried to the street to take the next report. One thing about life now, it was never boring. One couldn't go five minutes without a new assignment—in fact, if they were that far apart it felt like a vacation. No matter how much they did, how hard they worked, there was always another urgent call, another rescue to be made or crime to be stopped or dealer to be arrested. In fact they came with even greater frequency; the more they did, the more they found to do.

Chief Banks had confirmed this with no small degree of pride. "They're beginning to trust us again," he had said. "People had just about given up on the cops being able to do anything, bad or good. That's changing; they're coming to us for help, now. They're starting to believe in us."

It would help if Jim could believe in that himself. If he had some evidence..."You're being way too hard on yourself," Blair had insisted recently. "Just look at what we've done, in so little time—"

"What? Tell me that, Sandburg, what have we actually accomplished?" A student had been killed a couple day before that conversation, shot on the street a block from the university campus. Probably a buy gone bad, it wasn't clear. Blair hadn't slept in the intervening two nights; he hadn't known the boy and was no longer working at Rainier, but he still had ties.

Nevertheless he fought back despair, kept their spirits up. "What haven't we done? We closed down Gettering—that punched a major hole in the organization's production here in the city. We've collared some of the alliance's primary dealers and suppliers. We've even put a dent in the corruption in the force." That was possibly their greatest achievement, ferreting out those officers on the take, the officials bribed to look the other way for far too many years. Amazing what one could hear in the station halls, when the listener was a Sentinel. He had almost conquered his residual guilt of eavesdropping on his associates.

It was a good thing the chief was on their side. Without Simon's help their accusations would have meant nothing; with Chief Banks to back them up...the mayor was currently undergoing a federal investigation. Half the city officials had something dirty on the side. Unearthing them was a good part of the fight, though right now they were devoting even more time to keeping their efforts from becoming a witch-hunt. There were honest men and women left in Cascade, but separating them from those using their positions to further their own ends was far from simple.

Jim didn't care for any of that. Legal infighting, costly lawyers—the whole situation was a mess. There was a difference between an official who accepted a seafood dinner from a corporate sponsor and one who took a cool ten thousand for letting shipments past customs, same as there was a difference between smoking a couple joints on the weekend and pushing crack on grade-schoolers. Drawing the line, though, that was the difficult part. He preferred the streets in that respect. Lines clearly demarcated, actions obvious...danger more straightforward, physical.

He understood that in the long run more might be accomplished in courtrooms. And he suspected Blair favored that battlefield over the possibly deadly back lots and alleys. Yet his partner never said a word, followed him without complaint no matter where he lead. Always with a cheerful mien and willing attitude, ready and able to take on whatever may come.

As Cascade's Sentinel he needed Blair as his Guide, to deal with his heightened abilities. But if he were near-sighted and hard of hearing he'd need Sandburg just as much, required his partnership to keep going, to do what he needed to do. To enjoy what he wanted to do. Everything centered around his partner, his entire life orbiting another. He wasn't sure he could break away even if he had wanted to; accepted it, because he knew he didn't want to. And as Blair showed no inclination to pull back himself, he could afford to let it be and focus on larger issues. Like protecting the city—their tribe.

They drove to the reported block. Blair switched on the sirens and flashers, and by the time they arrived most of the gathering gangs had scattered. Another benefit of the police's improved reputation: they now had a certain intimidation factor.

A nervous mother dared emerge from her apartment to express her gratitude, "Thank you, thank you, those bad boys, they might've hurt someone. Big fight, so many boys, they would hurt each other worse. Thank you!"

Nothing else they could do on the empty streets, so they accepted her thanks and returned to the truck, heading to the station. In the back seat their suspect remarked, "Stupid, man, come all the way out here for that? Just kids fightin' in the street, thought you big cops had better things to do."

"Most of those kids probably had switchblades, or worse," Blair said, twisting in his seat to glance at the dealer. "They might not even be high school age, but that doesn't mean they aren't dangerous."

"We get deaths in the day gangs," Jim added. "All the time."

"So? Couple of kids duck too slow, their parents cry, lots more left. You want danger, go after some nighthawks," he returned smugly.

Jim ignored him, used to the cavalier attitude of a hardened criminal. This man might be barely out of his teens, but he had grown up in this system, could hardly see the wrong in it. The law hadn't prevented these things, only helped control them. It was that control that they had lost entirely, were fighting so desperately to rebuild.

Blair should have been accustomed to it by now, but he still had to say, "We stop them too, but what the day gangs do is just as important—maybe more. If your kid brother died in one of those fights, wouldn't you have wanted it stopped?"

"Don't have no kid brother."

"Fine, your friends' brothers, or sisters, whatever—you, when you were younger—"

"I made it fine, I'm quick," the dealer said sullenly.

"Forget it, Chief," Jim murmured. "Just drop it." As he did, with one final glance at the handcuffed man.

That was the worst part, the children involved. The majority arrested were under thirty, and too many juveniles to hold or rehabilitate. There were kids in Cascade who had never so much as been inside a classroom, because there was no way to enforce that law. Too many other concerns. And few enough ways to teach or help those who did make it to school once in a while.

So they joined the day gangs, until they were old enough to become members of night hawks, and if they rose far enough in the ranks the organization might hire them to deal, produce, or ship; or the private alliance would contract them for their own sales. Depended on where they were, whose territory they fell under.

Not complete chaos after all. Just disaster. The longer it went on the more people paid for it, in lives and spirits lost. And no matter how Blair tried to point to the brighter side, optimistically recalled their accomplishments and hopes, they were still a long ways away from victory.

Two hours later the prisoner was in an interrogation room and Sentinel and Guide were in the midst of a rousing round of good cop/bad cop. Blair, relying on his innate empathy and already-displayed compassion, made a natural sympathizer, accentuated by his non-regulation appearance. Even with the shorter hair, his civilian status was never in doubt. Jim assumed the role of tough cop without difficulty; generally it was harder to curb his aggression than it was to release it.

"We want the name. Now!" and to punctuate the command he slammed his hand down on the table.

The prisoner—his prints had identified him as Jackson Drew—didn't so much as flinch. "And I wanna lawyer—you think you can keep me here forever?"

"I dunno, man," Blair returned. "The legal system's way overloaded as is; there aren't any attorneys available, won't be for a while—"

"You'll starve to death before one shows," Jim snarled. "If anyone's willing defend you—even lawyers think twice about helping a son of a bitch selling crack to ten year olds."

"Hey, man, it's just business. Gotta make a living somehow." He leaned back in the metal folding chair. "'Til I see my lawyer I ain't talking."

"Yeah, but you won't be eating, either," Blair murmured, "unless you're going to pay for a lawyer yourself." Drew twitched at that; they all knew that the alliance had neither the funds nor the inclination to go out of its way for its members. It wasn't a corporation but a consortium, and it worked entirely on the big fish-little fish principle. Sink or swim, and it didn't care which unless you tried to drag others down with you. "Come on," plead Blair, "you don't need to say much, just a little cooperation. If they think you have something big..." He cocked his head meaningfully toward Jim, "I can't do much, but if you give me an edge I could negotiate."

Drew only narrowed his eyes, shaking his head.

"Listen, you little punk-ass—" Jim began, stepping close to tower over him, fist raised as if to knock him from the chair.

"Whoa, hold on," Blair protested. "Think we better take a breather." He grabbed Jim's arm and forced it down, ushering his partner from the room.

As soon as the door closed behind them Jim smacked his open hand against the door frame. "He hasn't given us a damn thing!"

"Yeah, I noticed. Gotta watch the temper there, big guy."

"Oh, lay off, Sandburg," irritated. "You know I wouldn't touch him."

"Mm, I know, but I bet he doesn't—that was quite a performance. You almost scared me—ever consider acting as a career? Maybe you missed your calling."

"Lot of good it did."

"Take it you haven't had much success?" asked the captain of Major Crimes, coming down the hall.

"No," Blair told Brown with a sigh.

"Nothing, H," Jim seconded grimly. "If we hadn't had his prints on file we wouldn't even know his name. He won't give the name of his partner, who they've dealt with, who they purchase from, nothing. Won't confirm or deny anything we ask. We've been at this for over half an hour and we knew more when we started."

"Sounds like you need a new approach," the captain commented.

"What we need is a lead!" Jim snapped. "A clue, a name, something! We haven't done anything in the last month—picking up random dealers does nothing, there's always more. We need to cut the supply lines, break the organizers—kill the root, and then clear away the rest of the mess. Otherwise it just grows back."

Brown blinked, turned to Blair. "I take it you've been discussing with this him again, Doc?"

"A bit, here and there. Anthropologically it's kind of interesting." Throwing up his hands to block Jim's sharp glare, "Hey, I analyze it because that's why I'm on the payroll!" Officially, at least. "Can't help it if I find it intellectually stimulating as well." He looked back to the captain. "He's right. We need a break; all this small-time stuff is just spinning wheels in the long run. Taking Drew off the streets doesn't help—but the information he might have, that could do something."

"We need it," Jim said.

"So, keep trying," Brown told them. "With a method that works," he added unhelpfully.

Jim glowered at him. Sometimes Brown took entirely too much pleasure in being their nominal superior. Blair, however, fell immediately to the problem at hand, "Let's get back in there. I have an idea."

"What's that?" Regarding his partner with some suspicion.

The gleam in Sandburg's eye did not bode well. "We psyche him out. Come on, Jim, follow my lead," and he directed his partner back into the room.

The suspect looked up at their entrance and yawned, slowly and deliberately. He nearly choked on his tongue when Blair grabbed his chair and rocked it backward, shoving forward when he released it so the legs clanged against the cement floor. Drew, jarred by the impact, blinked at him confusedly, "What—"

Blair didn't let him get any further. "Shit, man, you could've told us, you could've told _me_, why didn't you let us know that much? If you had just told us we could've done something, stopped him somehow—"

"What are you talking about?" Drew straightened in his seat, adjusted himself. Jim could almost see him re-establishing his equilibrium.

Blair wouldn't allow him to maintain it. "Don't you _dare_ sit there and act like you had no idea," he shouted into the man's face. "He's your partner, he must've told you what he was planning—I don't believe you'd go along with it, even a bastard like you, come on, man—I wasn't expecting decency, but this—"

"Shit," the prisoner groaned, "What'd Harris—" catching his slip too late, "--what'd he do?"

Blair didn't even seem to notice, so filled with rage. Outside the room Brown was probably already running the name down; at least he had narrowed the options a bit. Jim listened and heard the captain's voice, probably on the phone...no, talking to someone; Detective Rafe had joined the observation.

Well, they were getting quite a show for their time. Blair had pushed away from Drew and now was pacing around the room, flinging his arms in the air as he raved, "I don't believe you wouldn't know, God, if you knew—I tell you, man, I was almost ready to believe you, try to help you. Good kid gone bad, that's what I was trying to tell myself, no matter what they say, but this—I can't believe...I could kill you myself!"

"What, man?" demanded the prisoner, for the first time showing unease. He tracked Sandburg's movements around the room, circling the table, fists opening and clenching as if he were fighting to contain his fury. His eyes were so wide white entirely circled the blue, darting around without ever quite fixing on the dealer.

"Uh, man?" Drew muttered, glancing from him to Jim. "Is he, like..."

Jim shrugged and played along, "I don't know. He doesn't get like this very often...but he's got good reason, now."

"What's _wrong_ with you!" Blair screamed suddenly, as if it had exploded out of him, so unexpectedly Jim couldn't help but jump. Drew stared at him like a transfixed rabbit, the bemused, nervous expression of a sane man dealing with a possibly dangerous psychotic. "Can you just explain why you would go along with it, can you justify it somehow?" He whirled and grabbed the chair back over the man's shoulders, trapping him between his arms, their faces only inches away. "_Why_?"

Drew babbled, "Aw, shit, man, did Harris—I didn't know, honest, I didn't know what he was doin', he was the one that dealt with them, we didn't have nothing planned. We were supposed to meet tonight, he didn't tell me nothing else. Smith didn't say nothing—"

"Smith?" Jim inquired. He took Blair by the shoulders and pulled him back.

Drew shook his head, "That's the only name he uses. Harris brought me to him, I don't know who he is. He gives us the stuff on schedule, that's all I know, I swear, man, that's all."

"Harris who?" asked Jim.

Drew started, "Wait, I thought—"

"Who's Harris?" Blair yelled, made a motion to grab him again.

Jim interposed himself between Drew and his flailing partner, "We just want confirmation of the name."

"C.C. Harris." Drew seemed to sink into himself as he mumbled the name. "Christopher Harris."

"Thank you," Jim said, and escorted his seething partner outside. Rafe and Brown broke into spontaneous applause as soon as they shut the door, which Jim joined enthusiastically. Sandburg smiled ironically and essayed a bow.

"Great performance," the captain congratulated him. "We got a couple names, we got a date. Now all we need is a place and we're home free."

"That won't be as simple," Blair commented. "I think he's onto us; if he's got any brains he's going to clam up."

"And he doesn't seem that dumb. Unfortunately." Captain Brown looked at his men. "Ideas?"

"Cut him loose," Rafe suggested. "Seriously. Release him, follow him, listen to what he says."

Brown shook his head. "Good idea but no; we can't risk losing him. He won't agree to a bug, and our listening devices aren't reliable enough—most of the smart crooks have jammers, anyway."

The detective shrugged. "So don't use devices. Just have Jim listen."

There was a moment of silence and a series of looks exchanged between the four men. Jim scrutinized his colleague's expressions—Rafe with an odd wry confidence, and Brown showing resigned acceptance. Then he turned to Blair, who seemed absolutely speechless, a rare condition indeed.

The captain finally sighed, "I think we should go talk to the chief," to which the others immediately agreed.

 

* * *

Jim grabbed Blair before he could follow Brown and Rafe, brought him aside for a moment to hiss, "What was that? They know?"

Blair tried not to squirm, keeping his tone relaxed, "Apparently."

"You didn't tell them?" The Sentinel was all suspicion.

Wasting no time to establish the truth, "I had no idea—before you got back I hadn't even seen them for a couple years, remember."

"Sandburg, you're _sure_—"

"Jim," working to keep his voice level—no easy trick; he was still hyped from interrogating Drew. But Jim needed him to be calm. "I told them nothing, swear it by my first-born son."

"Sandburg..." his partner began, trailed off and blinked at him.

Blair waited just long enough for the gaze to become a stare, then grinned, "Kidding, man. I would've mentioned any children to you by now, trust me. And I would have said something if I knew your secret was out. I'm as in the dark as you are—let's get down to Simon's office and see if some light can be shed there."

"I don't know what the issue is," Rafe was arguing when they entered. "I mean, one of us has abilities, we're all aware of them—we should use that to our advantage. If you're willing, Jim," with a respectful nod to his fellow detective. "I know, when he first got back we didn't want to add more pressure, but it's stupid to play dumb for this long."

"How long have you known?" Blair beat Jim to the question.

"Since you published the diss," said Brown. "Come on, we're not all brains like you, Doc, but we can read."

"The librarians were very helpful," Rafe added. "We gave them your name, filled out the appropriate slip, and they brought it right to us. Wouldn't let us check it out but they made photocopies for us to read at our leisure."

"Not that it was all that fun," the captain commented. "You could've made it easier on us laymen. But pretty interesting, what we did get, a lot of stuff made sense. Things Jim had done. Why you were here."

"Of course we didn't think it did much good," Rafe said soberly. "Since Jim was...gone. But when you came back—we remembered."

Jim looked to Banks, leaning back in his chair and quietly watching them. "Simon, did you know?"

The district chief shook his head. "Had no idea...should've guessed, though."

"So who else read it?" Ellison demanded.

"Just us," Brown replied. "Oh, and Joel—he was still on the force then. Don't worry, we're not planning on talking. No point in having an ace in the hole if you show it off to everyone. We figured you'd 'fess up eventually...and if you didn't, you probably had your reasons. Right?"

He glanced sidelong at Jim, but the Sentinel wouldn't meet his gaze. Yes, he had his reasons, but he wasn't eager to announce them...admit that he hadn't trusted them. Blair could understand that; not an easy confession to make, even to yourself. They were his friends, but he hadn't been planning to tell them any of it.

And then there were the other reasons. Jim wasn't willing or eager to examine those, either.

"Sorry, guys," Blair covered for his Sentinel. "That was me, asking him to keep it under wraps. Before it was because it could have affected my research, and now...well, we weren't sure you'd understand. It is kind of unusual, and I didn't want you to think Jim was a freak, or God help us a superhero." He grinned. "I mean, if he's Wonder-Ellison then I'd have to be the sidekick, and I hate those florescent tights!"

The other two chuckled over that mental image. Jim shot him a quick look, the merest glance but Blair could easily read the gratitude in his eyes.

"So," Rafe said, still smiling, "now that we know, and you know we know, can we put it into action? Release Drew and see what happens—listen, smell, whatever?"

Brown nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sounds like a plan—Jim?"

"Sure," Ellison agreed. "Whatever it takes." He sounded no different but Blair could see the determination returning to his stance, straightening his back the tiniest bit more. It helped that Rafe and Brown had known for this time, and weren't disturbed by his difference, or angry it had been kept from them—accepting. Just what Jim needed.

Now if only he would acknowledge why he was so disturbed by their knowledge, by what others had done with that knowledge. Not something Blair had much hope for. He had tried often enough to get his partner to talk in the last five months, but Ellison clamped his jaw shut whenever the topic of his missing years came up, no matter how blatant or subtly.

Just as he refused to discuss his nightmares, even when they tormented his sleep almost nightly. Rare for a week to pass that Blair didn't have to wake him from one; other times he'd rouse himself with his own cries. Always embarrassed if he woke to find his partner by his bed; usually he'd apologize, roll over and feign sleep until Blair left. And nary a mention in the morning.

Occasionally, if Blair quizzed him when he first opened his eyes, still half in the grip of his dreams, Jim would describe bits and pieces of what he experienced. Never enough details to make any sense of them, but enough...smooth walls and dark rooms, brilliant lights and sharp needles. Remnants of ordeals he was probably better off forgetting. What little he mumbled was enough to haunt Blair's sleep as well, though he was sure the horrors of his imagination were no match to what Jim had endured. And that thought was far worse than any nightmare.

"All right," Simon declared, and he jumped his train of thought to attend to the chief, "if Jim's agreed, then try it tonight. Brown?"

"We'll release Drew at nine this evening," the captain decided. "That should give him enough time to get to any rendezvous he might have. Jim, Blair, you stay as far away as you can and still be able to listen—that's a hundred feet at least, right?"

"If he's whispering," Jim confirmed. "And behind a wall."

"No problem," Blair assured them. At least if Jim didn't zone...he could see past the facade of confidence on his partner's face, realized the Sentinel had the same concerns. Laying a hand on his arm he murmured in an undertone pitched for his ears only, "It'll be fine." He'd stay on the ball this time. No problem.

 

* * *

It went exactly as planned, at least until the end. They fed Jackson Drew a line about technicalities, evidence loss, and first offenses; and let him back onto the street. He called ahead and got a friend with a motorcycle to take him back to his part of the city. Jim and Blair followed from a couple blocks away in Jim's new Ford pick-up, Blair driving so Jim could focus on anything they might say. Nothing, as it turned out; in silence Drew disembarked and entered a bar, and they pulled into a nearby alley and observed.

Lots of voices in the bar; hard to discriminate between them. Brow furrowed in concentration, Jim followed Drew's footsteps on the tile. They couldn't enter the bar themselves; he'd notice them. But the Sentinel listened to everything he did.

He didn't seem to be there to drink so much as to socialize, catch up on whatever he might have missed. Low murmur as he began speaking with another patron, nothing important, trivialities. Passing question about the bust; he shrugged it off, said that the cops hadn't been able to hold him. Started flirting with a woman, a waitress perhaps, who rejected his advances in no uncertain terms. Then he posed casual query about his partner Harris, which got no response.

After an hour of this, Jim's head began to ache. Sandburg on the seat next to him was yawning. The Sentinel was relieved to hear Drew muttering goodbyes—maybe he was going back to his flat to sleep. Brown had agreed to put others on surveillance in that case, and they would be free to get some rest themselves.

No such luck. When he exited he furtively glanced in either direction and hurried across the street. Blair straightened up, snapped on his seatbelt and put his hand on the ignition. "Don't start it yet," Jim instructed softly. "Can't risk him hearing and we don't know where he's going."

Not far; he ducked into an alley on the other side of the road. Jim listened hard and made out a second pair of lungs breathing, confirmed when Drew hissed, "You there, CC?"

Tap of a hard-soled footstep. Tension in Drew's voice, "Smith—I'm sorry, I don't know where Harris is—"

"Stay here," Jim whispered to his partner, and quietly opened his door, not closing it completely. They most likely would notice nothing over the sporadic traffic, but it couldn't hurt to be careful. Turning up his collar he slipped out and strode down the sidewalk, stopping to lean against the brick wall opposite the alley. He tried to look inconspicuous, innocuous, waiting for someone or maybe just catching his breath. Harder than it seemed; there were almost no pedestrians, despite the active bar. Few people willingly walked these streets at night.

But no one was bothering him at the moment, and he could see across into the dark alley. Drew's back was to him, partly blocking the man he was addressing. Smith. The dealer sounded far less composed than he had during his interrogation, practically babbling, "I know we had the deal but we had a problem today, the cops showed during a buy and they took the goods. Harris split with the cash before he got caught, don't know where he is now, but he told me about this appointment—"

"Don't concern yourself with Mr. Harris," Smith said. Low voice, and cool, very cool. "What precisely did the cops get?"

"All we hadn't sold yet, maybe half a kilo. They collared me and asked some questions, but they couldn't hold me."

What little Jim could see of Smith didn't fit the grimy confines of the alley. Light hair trimmed short, clean-shaven, and he appeared to be wearing a suit and tie, charcoal gray. Some of the organization's representatives might be so well-groomed, but rarely those of the alliance, and Drew wasn't an organization dealer. Nor did Smith seem to be. Too calm; an upper member of the organization wouldn't be, not on these streets—they knew how quickly they could wind up dead. The alliance dominated this neighborhood.

"What cops?" asked Smith.

"What?"

"The cops who questioned you. Did you get their names?" Was there a touch of impatience in that level tone?

"Uh." Drew thought hard. Jim saw Smith look up, eyes glittering in the ambient glow from the streetlights. The detective ducked his head, brought his hands to his face as if lighting a cigarette. I'm nobody, don't pay me any attention—I'm too far away to see or hear anything, you know.

The dealer snapped his fingers, sharp click echoing in the alley. "Detective Ellison. John or something. And he had this partner with a girl's name—"

"Blair Sandburg," Smith murmured.

"Yeah, that's it, I think. Crazy bastard. He wanted to know about Harris, said CC had done something, I don't know what, though—maybe he was yanking my chain, I couldn't tell. He seemed pretty pissed—you know anything about that? What has Harris been doing?"

"Don't concern yourself with him," Smith repeated. "What did you tell Ellison, that he cut you loose?"

"Nothin'!" Voice fluctuating as Drew shook his head emphatically. "I swear, they got Harris's name, but that's it—I didn't rat on no one, I don't deal with cops. They let me go 'cuz of some stupid law, you know, paperwork stuff—"

"They just released you?"

"Yeah, weird, but I wasn't gonna fight it! I just split, thought Harris would be here to meet with you, but he's gone—what's up with him, what is he into? Hell, I don't even know about you, who you are—"

"And you won't be able to tell what you do know," said Smith quietly.

Jim heard Drew's breath catch, didn't dare raise his eyes. "Aw, shit, man, please—I swear, I didn't tell them nothing, they didn't bug me—"

"Ellison wouldn't need a bug," Smith told him. "He'd track you down—he probably has heard too much already. That can't be helped. But this can be." Two muffled thuds—a silenced gun. Drew made no sound beyond the impact of his body against the pavement.

Swearing, Jim drew his own piece, dodged across the street at a diagonal, out of the line of fire. Cautiously he sidled along the wall, took a breath and ducked into the alley, aiming his gun at Smith's position, "Police, don't move!"

No one there, and three doors lead out of the alley. Drew lay on the ground, head angled back, a trail of blood dribbling from the small hole between his eyes. No need to check his pulse. Instead Jim listened for another heartbeat; Smith couldn't have gotten far...

Nothing behind any of the surrounding walls, though he focused to the point of zoning. Squeal of tires outside on the street brought him out of that, Blair slamming the truck's door as he dashed to his partner's side. He skidded to a halt upon spotting Drew's body, "Jim? What happened?"

"Smith killed him."

"Who?"

"Smith." Jim shook his head, "Dammit, where is he? I don't know where he went—"

"Easy," Blair soothed. "He must have taken one of the doors, right—listen for footsteps—"

"I _am_, Sandburg. There's no one behind any of them, that I can hear—" At the corner he heard a vehicle brake suddenly, a car door opening. Shoving past his partner he made it to the street in time to see it pulling away, sleek black car, turning out of sight before he could reach the corner.

Blair pulled up in the truck a moment later, calling through the window, "You see where it went?"

Jim shook his head, climbed into the passenger seat. "I didn't hear him," he panted disbelievingly. "I couldn't hear him at all!"

"You heard his car fine, though," Blair pointed out. "So...either he's literally heartless, or he's too quiet to be heard. Remember Brackett's white-noise generators?"

"Why—" They weren't standard dealer equipment, at least. Except...except Smith had seemed to recognize his name. But if it was a generator, he hadn't activated it until after he had known Jim might be out there. After he had shot Drew, even. Revealed his hand only to escape...how had he known at all? What did he even know?

While these thoughts chased around his head he called in and reported Drew's murder. They spent a few minutes in the alley waiting for the forensics team to arrive, searching for clues with the truck's headlights and a flashlight. Nothing, unsurprisingly; the door Smith had apparently escaped through was unlocked but only lead down a narrow hall out to the street. If Jim had only heard him it wouldn't have been that hard to follow—but he had been prepared. Another round lost.

When the team came Jim and Blair returned to the station to discuss what little they had learned with Captain Brown, the three of them trying to make some sense of it. "We need to know who Smith is. And we need to know what happened to Harris," Sandburg finally summed up half an hour of mental exertion. "But I don't think we can do that tonight—tomorrow, then, captain? After a good night's rest?"

His partner could be very convincing. They actually made it home and were in their beds by twelve. Not asleep, however. The events of the day insisted on playing themselves over and again in Jim's mind, catching Drew, the lead he had given them, and it had ended up going somewhere entirely different than they had expected...not the organization or the alliance. He suspected it wasn't drugs at all.

What it was, however...he didn't dare go there. Bright lights and featureless hallways, waiting for him under his eyelids should he drop off. Rafe and Brown both knew, not about that, but they knew the reason for which he had been taken, his senses, and they'd probably have put it together by now. And Smith—who was he? Obviously an assumed name, cold voice and clean suit, not an average criminal...not a street crook at all, but a far more heinous sort, the instigator of horrors that wouldn't soil his hands. But he had killed Drew, to prevent whatever small secrets he knew from escaping. And he had known Jim would be near. Or feared it, at least...

He didn't know Smith; surely he had never heard that smooth dark tone, the sharp-featured face he had barely glimpsed, he didn't recognize it, did he? He had never met the man before, not in his life, not anywhere in his memory...not that he knew of, anyway.

Eventually he slipped from thought to sleep, only to jerk awake hours later, gasping as if he had run a marathon, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. There was a presence in his room, a second heartbeat, familiar...warm hand on his shoulder. Blair. "Yeah, Sandburg?"

"You were shouting." Quietly, not accusing or questioning, only stating a fact.

"Yeah." His short hair was matted under his fingers. Consciously he slowed his breathing. "Thanks, Blair."

"No problem." Bright blue gaze cutting through the darkness. "Want to talk?"

"No." Sharper than he intended, but too late to take back the denial.

Blair wasn't disturbed. "Was it about today, or before?" he asked quietly.

"Both," Jim replied after a pause, "neither. I don't know." He waited a bit before saying, "You can go back to bed."

"Sure you don't want a bedtime story?" Teasing because he knew it was needed, that reassurance of normality, comfort in patterns and familiarity and everyday life. Not shapeless horrific dreams but warm reality.

"No glass of water, either. Goodnight, Chief." His eyes tracked his partner through the dark room. Even in his bedroom he would still be able to hear his heart; he never told Blair how often he used that rhythm to count himself down into sleep.

It always was even, never accelerated with fear or interrupted by panicked gasps. Before he could stop himself he had asked, "Do you have nightmares?"

Sandburg paused at the doorway but didn't answer immediately, and Jim half-hoped he hadn't heard the soft query. Then he turned back, shook his head slowly. Knowing the Sentinel would see even if he couldn't. "No. Not since—not for a long time."

"How did you stop them?" He heard his own voice and wondered at it, so small and quiet, but it was late at night and only he and his partner were here to hear it.

Blair's teeth flashed in a twisted smile. "I stopped dreaming." He waited. When Jim didn't respond he headed back to his room, bed creaking as he settled on it.

Jim listened as his breathing slowed. He closed his own eyes, rolled over and felt the mattress springs shift under his weight. That was one solution, he supposed. Now if only he knew how to effect it...

Fortunate for Sandburg that he had no dreams. Therefore he was under no obligation to discuss them, as he repeatedly pushed Jim to do. No pressure to define borderless unformed fears, label emotions he barely knew he could feel, let alone understand. He couldn't tell Blair all that. Not that nightmare...not so many of them. How many times had he closed his eyes, and found himself in that place again, those lights too bright overhead, those men...

A freezing shiver coursed down his spine. Frightened by the memory of a mere dream—it wasn't real. It hadn't happened. They never had taken his partner.

Those were the worst nightmares of all. He would be watching, not part of it, only a helpless observer, and he'd see them with Blair, be forced to watch everything they did to him, every test, every experiment, deprivations, exacerbations, needles, drugs, electroshock, poisons. And he all the time as if behind an impenetrable glass wall, banging his fists against the invisible barrier and screaming his partner's name, ordering, demanding, begging them to stop—they never heard, they never did. No matter what he said or tried—nothing he could do.

He'd awake in a cold sweat, throat aching if he'd been shouting aloud, fists clenched so tightly his nails left imprints in his palms. Sometimes Blair would be right there; sometimes Jim would be alone and would force himself to listen, hear him always in the other room, close and present and safe. He was fine; they had never touched him, not once in those seven years. When Jim had first returned there was the abduction, but that had been the alliance's attempt to extract vengeance, nothing so covert and terrible as his nightmares. He had overhead one snippet of conversation but nothing had come of it. It was over. He was safe, and Blair was safe.

When he finally convinced himself of that, then he could tell Blair his dreams, perhaps; when they both could laugh at the foolishness of it all, then he could admit them. Right now his mind still whirled with the vivid false substance of the nightmare, and the too-real enigma of the man Smith. If they could puzzle that out, maybe then he wouldn't dream so darkly.

Meanwhile he stared up at the ceiling and waited for morning, forgoing sleep for the time being.

 

* * *

Jim hadn't slept well the night before. Blair noted the exhaustion in his eyes and the amount of coffee he downed before they left for the station. More lines on his face than there had been years ago; he couldn't hide fatigue quite so easily. Characteristically he said nothing, and Blair decided against asking him. He had witnessed the nightmare, after all; he wondered if Jim had been able to sleep after it. Probably not.

He wished Jim would bring it up on his own. The cries which had roused Blair had held a note he had heard before, but only when Jim slept. A pleading, terrified tone, nothing like his normal waking voice. Jim Ellison didn't beg. But in his nightmares was something so frightful he couldn't even fight it, could only pray for its ending. Understandable that he refused to mention it when awake; Blair wished he would regardless. Whatever it was, together they could find some way through it, talk out an answer and end that torment. And give Jim a full night's sleep for once.

In the meantime they had other matters to discuss. Jim had recorded a hasty but complete report of Drew and Smith's conversation the night before; now in the clear light of day they went over it again, tried to interpret everything said. It wasn't much to go on. Worse still, even when he studied the events as objectively as possible, he kept reaching the same logical, unavoidable conclusion. Smith knew about Jim's abilities, and had been prepared for them. Because he suspected the Sentinel might be around, or because he always was ready? Either explanation made Blair's skin run cold.

Jim worked with a sketch artist to make up an approximation of the man he had seen; Smith was a murderer in addition to whatever else he might be involved in, and at least they could put out a warrant. Not that there was much hope they'd find him. Jim wasn't even sure he could pick the man out of a lineup, though he'd recognize his voice it might not hold up in court, and it was a sure bet the generic name was an alias. But they did what they could.

Of course Smith wasn't the only concern; another random killing hardly put a dent in Cascade's active criminal schedule. Vice had had a successful bust the night before and half the officers were still mopping up the red tape around that one, processing who and what they had apprehended. And the phones were ringing off the hook as usual.

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, we'll get back to you, ma'am," Rafe said into his, his slightly accented voice tighter than normal for the easy-going detective. He slammed down the receiver with more force than necessary, shouted over to the Major Crimes receptionist, "Screen the missing persons calls a little more carefully—that's the third I've had to handle this morning."

Jim was busy flipping through arrest records on the off-chance Smith's face might pop up. Blair scooted his chair over to Rafe's desk, inquired, "What was that one about?"

Rafe sighed. "Some loco mother, upset because her baby didn't come home last night." He rubbed his temples, shaking his head when Blair raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, sorry, I don't mean it like that, but the kid is seventeen and has a girlfriend; he's been 'missing' before, last time for almost a week. I'm not saying he wouldn't get into trouble, but it hasn't been twenty-four hours, and though he is a minor we don't have time for a pointless APB."

"Lots of them today?" Blair murmured sympathetically. In truth he was torn; on the one hand he could understand the detective's impatience, on the other it was their job, after all. Worried mothers had good reason to be paranoid. But Rafe understood this; can't call a man on letting off steam, not when his heart was still true to his duty.

"We always get 'em," Rafe said. "Today's just been bad. There could've been something big last night, for all we know. Maybe a gang fight—remember when the alliance declared itself? Major shifts in territory; kids got stranded; if they were in the wrong colors they couldn't go home until they negotiated their safety. It's crazy but that's the way it is—we'll have to investigate, but right now we don't have the people for it."

"That's why I want you to look into it," the captain said behind them. Rafe glanced up at him questioningly; Brown nodded. "That was the twelfth missing person call this morning; a dozen before noon breaks the record. Collate them and see if there's any reasonable explanation—I got a bad feeling about this."

By the end of the day the count had risen to twenty-three, and at least two mothers mentioned other concerned parents who weren't calling the cops. Rafe found some commonalities—all from the same general part of town, all kids between fourteen and twenty-five. Even mix of race and gender; all bad kids, or at least not straight ones—gang members, drug buyers and sellers, and worse. Didn't mean their parents or friends weren't upset all the same. How many others might be gone with no one to notice their absence, or care?

It made Blair slightly sick, that so many kids could just vanish, and worse how he overheard a few of the officers reacting to Rafe's questions—Who cares? they wanted to know, some asking it bluntly, others implying it through their unhelpful attitude. So the streets were that much emptier—make their jobs easier. He remembered Jackson Drew's indifference—but Drew was dead, a frozen corpse in the morgue. Only a kid himself, had never had a chance to live; when would he have learned to care? The police should know better.

Jim was furious, cold ire showing only in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. Technically it wasn't their case, at least at first, but he could listen and the attitudes of his fellow cops angered him as much as they did Blair. Then they had reason to be involved. C.C. Harris was one of those missing, unreported, but they visited his haunts, made judicious calls, listened around corners—no one knew where he had gone, or if they did they weren't talking. Considering Drew's fate it was hardly surprising.

They didn't get a break until after they went home for the day. The phone was ringing when they reached their hall; Jim heard and pushed past his partner, unlocked the door and grabbed it before the answering machine could pick up. "Ellison, hello?"

He listened for a moment, then passed the receiver to Blair, murmuring, "James Modell."

Blair took it with a smile, "Hey, Jim!" James had been his student last semester when he had still taught at Rainier, and though he no longer was employed by the university Blair remained his informal advisor, both in classes and other matters. James was a good kid who had pulled himself out of trouble with their assistance; the dealers had learned not to mess with him. Helping Modell had been Jim's first true act as detective—and Sentinel—upon his return to Cascade. Blair was happy to call James friend if no longer pupil, and the student appreciated his mentoring and requested it when needed.

This, however, would take more than a word or two of advice, Blair realized when James spoke. "Uh, yeah, Professor—Blair." He only reverted to 'Professor' when worried—and James had been through enough that he didn't scare without cause. "I've been trying to get you—I was wondering if maybe you could come over tonight, you and your part—your friend, Mr. Ellison."

"That should be okay, Jim," Blair said slowly, after his partner nodded agreement. "Why, though?"

"Uh, I've got a—a friend here, and I think you should meet her, you know, in private? I've told her you're nice guys, my friends, and she's willing to talk, but we can't do it where somebody might find out..."

"Are you in trouble, Jim?" Blair asked quietly.

He was reassured by James's immediate reply, "No, I'm fine, but...my friend might be. You have to hear what happened to her. Will you?"

"You want us to come over to your place, or meet you somewhere?"

There was a pause before he answered, "No, come to my apartment, but make sure you aren't, uh, followed."

Blair agreed, hung up the phone and shook his head. "Wonder what he's up to now."

"He has a woman there at least," Jim told him. "I heard her—she wanted to know if it was safe, when he told you to come over. He has a girlfriend, right?"

"Not right now...we should get over there. If she was listening to the conversation, the way he was talking—he doesn't want her to know we're with the police?"

"My impression, too," Jim agreed. "But that doesn't mean he's got a gun to his head—it's probably for her sake. He doesn't want to intimidate her. Maybe she was assaulted—he strikes me as the kind a woman might go to for help."

He nodded, liking the reasonable, relatively safe nature of the suggestion. "James is interested in going into police work but I wonder if he might be better off in psychology. At any rate, I don't want him getting in over his head; that's the last thing he needs right now. Maybe it won't take much to help his friend—we have to at least check it out." Also to disperse the itching feeling in his stomach telling him that this wouldn't be so simple.

Cop instincts must be contagious; he recognized the signs of his partner's unease. "I hope we're right," Ellison muttered as they headed downstairs to the truck. "Since I know why you get along so well with James Modell."

"Oh?" Blair held the door for his partner. "Why's that?"

Jim ruffled his hair in passing. "'Cause he's like you—a natural trouble magnet."

Rolling his eyes, "And here I thought it was because I get along with any old idiot named Jim."

"Who are you calling old?"

"Well, not Jim Modell, anyway—" Blair said with a grin, slipping behind the truck's cab and into the passenger seat before his partner could prove how spry a spring chicken he still was.

 

* * *

James Modell answered on the first knock, hurried them in and locked the door behind them. Jim stood quietly by while his partner exchanged greetings with his former student. The apartment was a typical sophomore flat, living room, bedroom, and combination kitchenette, dining room, and entryway. Neater than some, but the low coffee table in the center of the living room was buried beneath a mound of papers and one had to maneuver around discarded shoes and jackets to reach it. James excused the mess with an indistinct wave, his mind obviously on larger concerns.

He was a gangly auburn-haired boy whose long face should have looked younger than his years, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that lent him an air of maturity. Nineteen is a young age to have faced death, and it had changed James Modell, Jim suspected; the ordeal he had undergone with the alliance dealers had taken a toll on what innocence he might have had before coming to Cascade. It was for people like him that they continued to wage their war. People who deserved to be saved, though they may have stumbled into trouble; kids who could do great things, given half a chance. Such reminders Jim found he needed all too often, after what he and his partner witnessed on the streets and behind the walls of the city.

"So why are we here?" Blair asked quietly.

James glanced at the closed bedroom door. Jim listened, heard soft breathing directly behind it—someone listening to them in turn. The student raised his voice, "You can come out, it's safe. These are my friends."

The girl who opened the door might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell between the chopped platinum hair and the dark circles around her hazel eyes—not all mascara. She was too thin under her black leather jacket and she moved with the jerky motions of a startled deer, at odds with cold, jaded stare she subjected them to. James, unintimidated by that hard gaze, approached her and repeated, "These are my friends, Blair, and Jim," gesturing to each in turn. They nodded. "And this is..." He trailed off, allowing her to supply her name.

"Lindsey," after an instant of hesitation. Judging from her voice she couldn't have been older than James, for all the bitter tone, "Why'd you come, what the hell can you do?"

"They can help," James insisted, "but you gotta tell them what happened."

When she seemed unconvinced, Blair cocked his head inquiringly at his student. James shrugged helplessly, nodded. Jim, understanding the exchange, stepped forward and took out his badge. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison of the Cascade PD; Blair is my partner. If you'll tell us what's wrong—"

He didn't get any further; Lindsey's eyes opened wide, then she whirled and dashed back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Blair raised a questioning eyebrow. James sighed, apologized, and followed the girl into his room; Jim heard her round on him, "The cops? What the fuck, you _promised_—"

"They can help," James told her, very calmly.

"You said friends, not the damn police—they'll just throw me into the cage, they wouldn't listen—"

"They'll listen." Blair was right; James should go into psychology. That soft, trustworthy tone was suited to the best counselors. "They are my friends, they're not just cops. Blair is Professor Sandburg, you've heard me mention him, right? He's the one who helped me out when I went straight; he's still helping me. And Detective Ellison is his partner—you've probably heard of him, too."

"Yeah, he's busted my friends—"

"He is a cop," James agreed. "But he's a good guy—he's a hero, really. He saved my life, Blair's and mine. The alliance kidnapped us, they were going to kill us for a lesson; Detective Ellison rescued us just in time. He's an honest cop, and I know you can trust him—he'll be able to help. And Prof—Blair's a good listener, and he's very smart, he might have some idea what happened. They both might. Even if they don't, they need to know—you know they do. They'll believe you, and they won't arrest you, they'll listen to you. I swear."

"I knew you'd quit but I didn't know your friends were cops," Lindsey muttered.

James sounded as if he were smiling. "Not everyone, just them. Most of my friends are just students—they're not in gangs, and we stay on campus usually, but they're nice. You could hang out with us, if you want to."

"Right, like I'd fit in."

"Hey, I do," James pointed out. "It's easier than you might think—"

"I can't," she said shortly. "Not now."

"I know. That's why you have to talk to them now—so you can be safe. And everyone else, too. Please, Lindsey?"

There was a pause. At last she asked quietly, "He saved your life?" James confirmed it. She exhaled, "Guess I can talk—but they better not tell who told them."

To assure her of this, the first thing Jim did when they re-entered was vouch for the anonymity of their sources. Lindsey nodded, though her narrowed eyes showed her lack of trust. Nonetheless she began to talk. It wasn't an assault case, that immediately became obvious. This was entirely different.

"You know I do stuff," she began, and they agreed, trying to keep condemnation from their expressions. "I don't deal nothing, I know using's illegal too, but if you're going arrest me I won't talk, and I'm dead if you take me in—" She swallowed, afraid for all her attitude.

Blair touched her arm. She jumped but met his eyes, and he told her steadily, "We won't arrest you; we just want to know what happened to you." True sympathy in his voice and gaze, and she relaxed a little under it. Seven years hadn't diminished Sandburg's charms; even this hardened street girl wasn't immune. Few things are as compelling as honestly-felt compassion.

"All right," she said. "A couple days ago, in the afternoon, I met this man—I thought I knew what he wanted, and he looked like he could pay well, dressed up in a suit and all. But he didn't want to pay me for that; he wanted me for, I dunno, an experiment. A trial, he said—they had a new drug. That's what he told me, something new, like Ecstasy only better. Designer stuff, too expensive for me, but they wanted to know everything about the high, they needed volunteers. He gave me twenty bucks and said if I came to this place that evening I'd get to try it, and they'd give me another hundred, too.

"I know, it's stupid to go along like that, but I've met a couple of those upper dealers and they're just like he was. And I've heard of tests like that, I know people who've done them at parties and whatever, they say you don't get much stuff but it's fun, and they do pay. A couple of my friends had also met the guy and wanted to check it out, so I went with them. It was like a party, there were a lot of us there, in this warehouse. A few dozen, fifty, sixty at least. We all got there and after a little while, maybe half an hour, they showed up, in suits and ties and everything. Had us all sit down, and then they gave us the stuff, no needles or nothing, just little blue pills with water. Dull shit, and we got bored sitting there waiting for the high, some of us wanted to go but they said we couldn't.

"Pretty soon everyone started getting quiet, or snoring. I was staring up at the ceiling and everything was spinning a little, it wasn't anything big, no colors or nothing—felt like some good weed, that's all. I always have to smoke a few joints to get to that high, and I can drink a lot too—I'm small but I can take a lot. High tolerance, you know? Anyway, maybe that's why I didn't drop off, or maybe it's because I've used stuff something like those pills before...

"I looked over and there didn't seem to be so many of us on the floor; then I saw the men and these other guys with stretchers, putting kids onto the stretchers. I knew that was wrong, even if I was kind of fuzzy, I thought they were taking them to the hospital and I got scared I might be sick too. Then I realized there weren't ambulances or doctors or anything, just these weird men, and that seemed worse somehow. I was in the corner already, and I rolled until I was all the way in it, against the wall. When they were all on the other side of the building, I got the hell out. Headed toward one of the doors, it was really hard, I kept tripping and every time I thought I saw them I had to freeze in the shadows so they wouldn't see me. Finally I made it, and I didn't see if they were looking, I just opened the door and ran outside, well, I tried to. I fell down and crawled onto the street and into an alley, sort of scrunched behind a trashcan and hoped they would think I was a bum or something.

"I didn't feel sick, only scared and really tired, and I sort of was dreaming, but I remember I saw vans driving by, several of them, white vans. It was around midnight, there weren't that many people around, and I fell asleep. When I woke up it was the middle of the afternoon; my head hurt and somebody had snatched my money and my sneaks but I was all right. I went over to the warehouse but all the doors were locked, and when I looked through the windows nobody was in there, it was all empty. Then I went to one of my friend's places, and that's when I found out everybody was gone, everybody who had been there was gone.

"I don't know who it was, or what happened, but I knew if they were gone then I was supposed to be too, and I needed to hide, but the friends I kind of trusted were all missing. Then I remembered Jim," she half-smiled at James Modell. "He used to hang with us, before he quit, he was a nice guy then though and I thought he still might be. So I went and found him and he took me back here, and I've been hiding here since last night. I don't think anybody knows where I am."

"Your parents?" Blair asked practically.

Lindsey nearly laughed. "Ma hasn't seen me for a week anyway, why does she need to know?"

Jim drew a breath, ignored his heart pounding too loudly in his ears. "These men, you didn't recognize them?"

She shook her head. "No, never seen them, and I've met some of the heads of the alliance and of the organization. I don't think they were with either one, I don't know who they are. But they were dangerous, I know that much...look, I don't know if you cops know, but once in a while somebody disappears, and you don't ask when that happens. Never heard of everybody taken like that, though... There's these guys, nobody really knows them, but no one messes with them. They don't ally with either side, you can't touch them, though. They pay well but if you're smart you'll just stay out of their way." Hugging her thin body, head canted toward the floor, she mumbled, "We weren't smart..."

James Modell put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a comforting squeeze. It wasn't the action of an boy attracted to a girl but a supportive gesture of a friend. "It's gonna be all right," he told her again. "Blair and Detective Ellison can help." Looking to them hopefully.

"We'll do whatever we can," Jim replied, hoping he sounded more assured than he was. It felt like a lump of ice was lodged in his stomach, not melting but freezing his guts solid.

"We'll help your friends," and there was confidence in Blair's voice, whether or not he actually believed it. "And we won't take you in."

"Can Lindsey stay here, James?" Jim queried, pushing back that inner chill.

The student nodded. "My roommate lives at his girlfriend's single anyway, it'll be fine—"

"Hold on," Blair interrupted, "this isn't a safehouse, and we don't know who or what we're dealing with..." Glancing from James to his partner with a worried furrow in his brow.

"Sandburg, if no one knows she's here," Jim began, at the same time James protested, "Professor, I understand—"

They both stopped; Jim motioned for the other to continue. James proceeded, "I know it's dangerous, but it would be worse to bring her elsewhere; she might be seen." And at the station they'd be obliged to file a report...who knew who might get hold of it. He didn't want to say that; these kids were scared enough as it were. "If they've realized by now that somebody got away..."

"Wait," Lindsey cut in, "since I'm the one you're talking about—I'd like to stay here. But I don't want to get Jim in trouble."

"Don't worry about it." James essayed a smile. "I get into it anyway."

"I think it's the best plan," Jim said, waiting for his partner's reluctant acquiescence before going on, "We can put a plainclothes watch on this building—we don't need to tell them who they're guarding, or even what room," he added when he saw Lindsey's face grow even paler. "You'll be an anonymous witness, and we'll make it clear that there is definite danger. James, don't tell anyone that anybody's staying at your place—make sure your roommate is sworn to secrecy too, if he does come back. You can trust him, right? Good. And if you see anyone around who fits the description of any of the men Lindsey saw, or Lindsey, if you see any of them—call one of us right away." He gave them his and Blair's celphone numbers. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," James replied seriously.

"Whatever," Lindsey muttered, shrugging one narrow shoulder, but her eyes were wide.

"All right," said Jim. "We'll be back to ask questions and tell you what we've found—until then, be careful." They exchanged farewells, left them in the small apartment, Lindsey on the couch arms folded and fear behind her cold adolescent eyes, and James Modell standing watchfully over her, a young but stalwart protector.

Just kids; they should be busy dating and learning and getting ready for the real world, instead of living this waking nightmare, far beyond the trials most adults had to face in their lives. When he was nineteen he had been in the army, learning to follow a drill sergeant's commands; Blair at that age had been in college for three years already, well on his way to a safe academic career. It hadn't been easy for either of them, but neither had it been this chaos, this terror...

He climbed into the driver's seat of the truck and stared blankly through the windshield at the street, hands gripping the steering wheel but making no motion to start the engine. Blair sat quietly in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window. It was a minute before he spoke, "Are they really going to be safe?"

"I don't—I hope so, Chief." Strange how calm his voice sounded, as if he weren't really the one speaking, some separate part of his brain working his lips and tongue while everything else was clenched up inside, frozen.

"They better be." Hard to say who the threat in his voice was directed at: those who would hurt them, or those who would allow them to be hurt... His partner was incredibly protective of the people he cared about, a quality Jim well understood. One of many things that held them so closely together. Probably having similar thoughts, Blair cleared his throat, changed the subject, "Do you think the men Lindsey encountered were related to...what happened to you?"

He didn't know what to say to that, couldn't have answered even if he had wanted to. When he stayed silent Blair turned in his seat, inquired, "Jim? Shouldn't we be getting back—" He paused, murmured under his breath, "Oh man." Laying a light hand on his shoulder, "Jim?"

He started at the touch, couldn't help it, worked his jaw and forced himself to respond. "Yeah, I'm right here, Chief." Gotta release the steering wheel, couldn't turn the key until he let go of it, but his fingers refused to open.

"Just wondering," Blair remarked, more to himself than to Jim. A little louder, deliberately calm, "Partner, it's pretty late, we should drive back and get to bed early, for once." He rubbed his shoulder, the pressure of his hand shifting from nerve end to nerve end; if Jim focused he could track the touch of each of his fingers through the soft cotton shirt. He let himself fall into the sensation and the soft voice accompanying it, allowing that warmth to melt the frigid paralysis inside. Shivered once before he could stop himself, and Blair gripped his bicep, "Easy, man, it's all right. You aren't zoning?"

"I'm not," Jim snapped, and nearly cringed at the petulance in his tone.

Sandburg only nodded, brushing his hair out of his eyes with one hand, the other still resting on his partner's arm, a necessary anchor. He couldn't feel the steering wheel under his hands but he could feel that gentle touch, and centered himself around its warmth. "I know, I know, Jim," he was saying.

Relaxing the muscles in his neck he turned his head, met bright blue eyes. Blair bobbed his head encouragingly. "Good, that's it—you're fine. Don't worry about it, Jim. Do you want me to drive?"

"I can do it." Concentrating, he took one hand off the steering wheel, inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. The motor rumbled to life, wheel vibrating slightly under his hand, and the vehicle's life shattered the last remnants of the spell gripping him. With autonomous ease he shifted gears and pulled the truck into the street, headed back to their apartment.

After parking in the garage below their building he paused. Could feel Blair's gaze on him and knew he wouldn't be allowed to let this ride. He didn't even want to. "Chief, I'm just not sure what happened there..."

"It's okay, Jim." Reassuring, but those sapphire eyes were intent upon him. "You—you scared me, man. I knew it wasn't a zone, but I haven't seen that look on your face since..." He only continued when Jim looked at him, verifying that he was indeed listening, "since you first came back, do you remember when the day-gang jumped us? You had a flashback..."

He couldn't help but shudder at the memory, nodded jerkily and concentrated on keeping his breathing even. Worse than the nightmares, to be awake and seeing what wasn't even happening—Blair had banished the vision, when he had been helpless to leave it himself.

"You weren't having one just then, were you?" Blair inquired, nodding understandingly when Jim shook his head. "But you were..."

"I was scared." He balled his fists, rested them against the steering wheel. "That's all, just so frightened I could've pissed in my pants, for no reason—"

"For a damn good reason," Blair overrode him with quiet force. "You know as well as I do—those men Lindsey described, they're just like whoever it was that took you. Even if it's not the same group—it's the same thing. Secret abductions, and nobody knows where they went, or even if they're still alive...God." He braced his arms against the dashboard. "God, Jim, that's close enough a reminder to make me sick to my stomach."

"I wasn't sick," he said distantly. "Just...cold..." and he shivered again, couldn't help it. Looked over and Blair's eyes were squeezed shut, fighting his own reaction. Jim reached out, pressed him close for an instant and released him, but he kept his arm over his partner's shoulder. Felt them rise and fall as he breathed, and found confidence in that. Almost smiling, "What a pair we are, Sandburg."

Blair exhaled, a long, shuddering sigh, and the corners of his mouth quirked up in a dim version of his usual wide grin. "We should both be in counseling. PTSD."

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The closest off-hand diagnosis to whatever afflicted them; possibly accurate, at that. It wasn't the first time Blair had mentioned it, but... "Don't think our budget can handle therapy at the moment," Jim said lightly, "and I know it won't fit in our schedule, so we're going to have to hold it together on our own. Hope you kept some books from your psych classes, Chief."

"Sentinel, heal thyself," Blair muttered, shaking his head. Gaze sharpening as he looked toward his partner, "Jim, I need to know, honestly. Can you handle this? Or should we give it to someone else—Rafe is on it now; we could tell him what we know." He put his hand over Jim's other fist, still against the wheel. Stared earnestly into his eyes, "Be straight with me, man. No macho cop stuff, nothing about your duty as a Sentinel or a detective or anything else. Just the truth—can you do it? Because I know how hard it's going to be for me, and I won't be able to take it without you. If we're right about this, we're going to be going up against them directly—and we have an idea how powerful they are, how far they can go. I want them, and I know you do too—but if you're not ready, I need to know, Jim. You don't have to tell anybody else. But I need to know."

Jim took a deep breath. Met his partner's gaze and returned it steadily, said, "I don't know if I'm ready or not, but I need to do this. I need to face them—it is my duty, as a policeman, as a Sentinel. And it's what I need to do, me, Jim Ellison—if I want to be myself. I won't be the man I was, not if I can't do this.

"I can, though. With you, Blair—if you're willing. I couldn't, alone...but if you're with me, yeah, I'm ready. I can take this. And we can take them down."

For a long time it seemed he looked into Blair's eyes, trying to determine what stirred in those blue depths. Then his partner nodded once, sharply, with a cough that might have been a chuckle, "You're right. We are quite a pair."

"Damn straight, Sandburg," Jim replied. "And they're going to learn what that means." It wasn't mere bravado. He knew it as well as Blair. This Sentinel and Guide thing went far beyond their own selves, something those dark others had too well known. Now more was at stake than just the two of them—they threatened the city. There would be hell to pay. And Jim was more than ready to see they met that price.

 

* * *

Though Jim had spent half an hour on the phone with Brown the night before explaining the newest developments, the captain all but tackled him and Blair when they arrived at the station next morning. His agitation wasn't just due to their report, they soon learned, though certainly that played a part. Sixty-plus people disappearing into the night was enough to make any cop unhappy, and what reports Rafe had followed up on supported everything they had heard.

But Brown had new concerns on top of the rest. "Two of them," he said. "They're in my office now. Yesterday I reported it to the Bureau, missing persons is their jurisdiction, after all, but I figured we'd have a couple days' leeway while it went through the red tape!"

Jim exchanged an uneasy glance with his partner. It wasn't necessarily bad news when the feds showed up...not always. They wouldn't have any idea what was going on here, however; they'd be more of a hindrance than a help, especially if they choose to accompany them on the field investigations. Harder for him to use his senses to their fullest potential if he had to watch what he said and did.

More than that though, far more...whatever else the operation that had taken him was, it had to be big, considering the extent of the cover-up. Government-supported or not—Blair had suggested it might be; Jim didn't know what to think himself. The heads of the United States couldn't balance the budget from year to year; he had a hard time believing they could handle a massive, entirely secret, completely criminal abduction and experimentation institution. So he tried to believe.

But if they could...the FBI had 'Federal' in its title for a reason...

There was nothing to be done about it now, though. Sandburg was at his side, bright eyes tracking his thoughts. His partner shrugged and Jim nodded agreement. They couldn't ignore this new obstacle, so the next best thing was to face it. Drawing a breath, he entered Captain Brown's office, Blair right behind him.

The two agents rose from their chairs. Two men, near the same height, averagely good-looking, dark hair smoothed back in similar conservative cuts. They both wore navy suits and drab ties. The older of the two, pale blue eyes just starting to crease at the corners, extended his hand. "You must be Detective Ellison. Special Agent Lee Pender; this is my partner, Special Agent Terry Guss."

Guss had brown eyes set in a youthful face; he couldn't have been much older than Sandburg when he had been an observer. A bit startling to see an agent so young, but his grip was as firm as his partner's and he had the stoicism of a fed down pat.

Jim completed the introductions, confirming, "I am Jim Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. He's an official consultant for the department." Usually it saved time to get that part out of the way first. If they wanted to throw a fit about a civilian taking part in a federal investigation they could argue it out now.

They didn't comment, however. "You're the detectives assigned to this case," Agent Pender stated, glancing at both in turn. "Captain Brown told us you had some new information but didn't go into detail; if you would explain—"

"Look, are you going to take this investigation over or not?" Jim demanded flatly. "I plan to write up the report as soon as I'm done here—"

"Then get to it," Pender told him. "Mr. Sandburg, I presume you—"

"Before I go do anything," Jim cut him off, "I have to know where this stands. We've been jerked around by feds too much just to roll over on our backs and take it. You don't understand the situation here, and if you don't know these streets you won't learn anything from them. If you want to stand around and watch us, fine, but don't think you can march in here and start running this investigation. There's a lot at stake; I'm not about to let you screw it up." It felt good to state it so bluntly, though he knew in the long run it wouldn't help to get on them. He saw Blair shake his head slightly but he couldn't take back what he had said and didn't want to. It was important that they understood their position from the outset.

Neither agent seemed perturbed by his little rant. "We do know something of the situation here," Guss remarked in an even baritone. "Cascade has had the highest crime rate in America four years running; they're the main drug supplier for the West Coast and most of the rest of the nation. That has only been getting worse—until the last six months. It's got a long way to go, but it's improving..." There was a sharpness to the look he directed at Jim, as if he had guessed a reason for the change.

"Reports don't cover everything," Blair said quietly.

"We know." Pender's tone was placating but forceful nonetheless. "Detective, Mr. Sandburg. We're not here to bother you, or replace you—we're here to help. We're on the same side. There are people missing, and it's our job to find them, your duty and ours. We realize that you have insight into this city and these people that we don't have, which is why we need to work with you. But we have insights and information you may not have—so it's in _your_ best interests to work with _us_. Does that make things clearer?" He didn't smile, waiting patiently for a response.

"All right," Jim conceded grudgingly. "We'll work _with_ you. What do you want to know—what do you already know?" he reworded, knowing they must have read at least some of the reports already. They were informed about the basic situation in Cascade, anyway.

"What's been written up to last night," Guss answered. "We read everything faxed to the office on the plane."

"Flying in from Portland?" Blair inquired.

Pender shook his head. "We're main office. Washington, DC. Got the report last evening and spent the night getting here."

"Why?" Jim asked. Why send agents from Washington itself; why also did they come so quickly?

"Sixty people vanishing is big," Pender said. "Our division has handled similar cases. Like I said, we may have insight you need."

Jim had to agree with his logic, though he narrowed his eyes at the off-hand 'similar cases'. Together he and Blair related what they had learned, giving all the details they could while keeping Lindsey's identity and current location a secret. Guss asked for both only once, and didn't protest when they refused to divulge it.

Ellison couldn't help but be impressed by their resolve. They were attentive listeners and asked revealing questions; clearly both were intelligent and competent investigators. Yet at the same time they left him with an uncomfortable feeling, some of their questions slightly too incisive, and at odd moments they would glance at one another in silent communication. Nodding at details that shouldn't stand out, but had meaning to them regardless. And to Jim—because they reacted most strongly to mention of the men the girl had seen, the vans they had driven. Suspicious elements, of course, and as they were the clear suspects it only went to reason that they would concentrate on them, but all the same there was an edge to the agents' interest he didn't care for.

He and Blair went out for lunch to talk over their observations. It occurred to him that the two agents might take the time to do the same; he wondered what they thought. But was more curious about his partner's opinion, which Blair didn't hesitate to supply. "I don't know, Jim. It could be worse, I guess—these guys seem halfway human. Guss almost smiled a couple of times, and Agent Pender sounds like he actually cares about the people, not just the investigation. They seem to know what they're doing. But..." He trailed off.

When he didn't continue Jim nodded. "Yeah. 'But.' Chief, how closely have you been watching them?"

"Close enough to see them jump when we first mentioned the abductors." Blair frowned. "And it wasn't surprise, either, unless I was reading them totally wrong. Jim, we gotta tell Simon, Henri, too."

"We don't know anything for sure—"

"No, we don't, and I don't want to be condemning them guilty before proven innocent—but we know what we're dealing with here, man." Or rather, they didn't know, and therein lay the problem. He did agree with his partner, however. It wouldn't be safe to keep their suspicions entirely to themselves. If something happened to them...

"I'll drop by Simon's office," Jim said. "And try to find time to talk to Brown when they're not around. Meanwhile we'll both keep an eye on them and compare what we see. And be careful, Chief."

"_You_ be careful," his partner returned. "Even if they're connected, it doesn't automatically mean that they know what you can do—don't give it away." But how much had already been given away; if they did all their research with the kind of devotion they were putting into this...and the dissertation was available...

Blair somehow followed his thoughts. "By the way, Jim, I called the university library yesterday—should've done it months ago, I'm sorry. My diss is now limited access; nobody sees it without express permission from me, in person." If that suppression of his scholarship disturbed him it didn't show on his face.

"Thanks, Blair," Jim said with relief, and meant it. They finished their lunch in comfortable quiet, paid the cashier for the Thai noodles and returned to the truck.

Blair leaned over after they climbed in. "One more thing, Jim—when you're with them, did you feel anything?"

He stiffened. "How do you mean?"

"A reaction." Blair tapped his fingers on the dashboard. "I was watching you, didn't notice anything but I was wondering if you were hiding it well. You don't recognize them, do you?"

From his quiet tone Jim knew what he implied, shook his head. "No, I don't. I don't remember ever seeing either of them before, either consciously or subconsciously."

Blair sighed. "Which doesn't mean all that much, since you couldn't have met everyone involved...still, it's something."

Not much, though, as he said. Jim spent the drive back to the station wracking his brain, shuffling through dim and obscured memories and coming up blank. As far as he was aware he didn't know them. And Sandburg was right; he hadn't reacted to their appearance or voices. The man Smith's affect had sent icy tremors down his spine, but these two agents were just ordinary men, not a threat, according to his instincts.

He wondered how much he dared trust those instincts. They hadn't been proven wrong, but they had never been proven right, either...maybe they meant nothing. Maybe they were like his dreams, response to past events, nothing to do with here and now.

He didn't know of any way of finding out, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

 

* * *

As they had stated, Agents Pender and Guss were willing to go along with whatever they suggested. Blair glanced at his partner in surprised suspicion, but they couldn't very well condemn them for amenability. It wasn't as if it were an unusual plan; they had a possible crime scene, only made sense to check it out.

With the agents following in their rental, they drove to the abandoned warehouse Lindsey had described. The key to the building they procured from the company currently owning the building. "It's condemned, though," the man at the office told them with a shrug. "We can't keep anything in it. Got it boarded up and our watchman in the storehouse next door patrols it a couple times a night to keep the kids out."

"So you don't rent it out, for parties or the like?" Jim inquired.

The man snorted. "t;Parties? It's against the codes to keep old newspapers there, you think we'd be allowed to open a dance hall? My boss wishes!"

When they contacted the night watchman, grumpy for being awoken before his shift began, he confessed a different story, "Alright, so they give me a couple bucks to hand over the key for the night and not check in, what's the big deal? They get a place they know the cops won't come lookin', they always clean it up—you gonna arrest me for somethin'? The jerks ain't vandalized it, have they?"

They asked him if he had so leased it in the last week. After adding that they would inform his supervisors unless he gave them the truth, he admitted to having lent out the key three nights before. Though he noticed their various reactions they didn't explain them, left him to examine the site itself.

At first glance it looked just as they had been told—an abandoned warehouse, boarded windows cracked, iron framework rusting, ceiling sagging. The floor was surprisingly dust-free; Agent Pender squatted, brushed his fingers across the cement and frowned at the result. "Should get the number of their housekeeper." He straightened up again. "It's been cleaned; I don't know if we'll find anything."

"A forensics team—" Guss began, then cut himself off even before both Jim and Pender started to shake their heads.

"Much as I'd like the help, we shouldn't," Pender said.

Of course Jim already knew the answer, but he still asked the agent, "Why?"

His hesitation was so brief as to be unnoticeable. "Beyond the fact that I doubt they'd find anything, given that it has been cleaned and the hypothetical crime was several days ago—we can't risk bringing too many people into this. Don't want to let them know we're onto them, Detective." He returned Jim's gaze steadily. "You wanted us to be straight with you—Guss and I have dealt with this before. Believe me, it's best to underplay what we learn."

Jim nodded. "I'll buy that. So we're on our own—let's split up, then, see what we can find." They agreed; it was a reasonable proposal, after all. It also gave Jim the best opportunity to put his senses to use without observation or interference.

They started on opposite ends of the warehouse, Pender and Guss testing the doors to the offices, Jim and Blair searching the corners, nooks, and crannies for some clue, some telltale hint of what might have passed here three nights ago.

Blair liked to watch Jim at work, using his abilities, invoking his full potential as Cascade's resident Sentinel. It was a pleasure he had never mentioned to his partner but had admitted to himself years ago, before Jim was gone. Now, even after five months, the mixture of novelty and old familiarity still thrilled him.

He could never experience it himself, to run one's fingers over the rough plaster and feel every dent and ridge, to identify by touch alone the layers of paint peeling and cracking under the whitewash. To smell the mold and chemicals making up the wall and be able to differentiate every odor, to know that oil paint had been used beneath the latex by the scent. But as he watched Jim move along the wall he could imagine every touch, every smell. In his mind he could peer through his Sentinel's eyes, see the smooth cement floor as its own landscape, every pebble a boulder and every imperfection of the boulders obvious if he cared to scrutinize them.

Sometimes he wondered if he appreciated Jim's senses more than Jim himself did. Not that he didn't use them well, in the best ways possible; Blair knew he wouldn't have made one tenth as good a Sentinel. But Jim was less inclined to marvel at wonders. In the beginning his abilities had seemed a curse to him, something dividing him from a normalcy he probably wouldn't have had even without them. Later he learned to accept them as part of himself, to the degree that he didn't think them extraordinary. Blair remembered, long before, when he and Jim had been partners for a couple years, how Jim almost seemed to forget that not everyone could see what he saw and hear what he heard. He used his senses so automatically that he had to consciously remind himself that he experienced perception on a different level—or more often Blair had reminded him. Another unwritten duty of a Guide.

Not now, though. Jim hadn't made that mistake once in the last five months. He used his senses often and well, but it always was a conscious decision, and he never let others know what he sensed. Except for Simon, and Blair of course. Probably Rafe and Brown now too.

Didn't matter, though, because Blair knew when he was using them. He always had, since the first day they had met, when he had seen Jim staring at the frisbee, right in the path of the garbage truck. Had recognized a zone out instantly, everything he had read rushing into his mind the moment he spotted the detective standing there frozen. He had acted without thinking, knocking him out of danger. Almost a decade later Blair had identified him zoning just as easily, hadn't been expecting that, certainly, not after seven years. But he had seen Jim across the Rainier campus and realized he was needed, went to him just as automatically.

He could describe the symptoms and signals, had done so in the dissertation. But in practice it never worked quite like that; he didn't observe and evaluate and diagnose, not consciously. He just knew, from experience, from his studies...from something else. When the Sentinel's breathing slowed and he was fixed in place, that was a zone out, and people often noticed. But the other, smaller things...his pupils dilating or contracting with uncanny alacrity as they focused. The way he tilted his head to one side, only a hair, and narrowed his eyes, when concentrating on sounds beyond normal range. The particular lightness of his touch gliding over a surface, slight tension in the tendons of his hand. Blair knew every sign, discerned them even when he wasn't watching for them.

Sometimes he wondered if it had been this way for other Guides, those long-past partners of the ancient Sentinels. Had they been so attuned to the warrior they supported? They must have; out in the wilderness, a single zone out could mean death, for one, or both, or all the tribe. They had to be ever on their guard that their Sentinel did not fall prey to his own power, too caught up in one sensation to miss a fatal other...

Not much had changed in the intervening centuries and the onset of civilization. Zone out on the street and a car would kill you as surely as a predator or warrior in older times. And their tribe, their city, would fall just as surely, with its Sentinel lost. It nearly had.

He wasn't about to let it happen again, not if he could help it. Now he watched his Sentinel closely, and imagined the vividness of every sensation as he observed Jim perceive them. Until the detective shattered his tightly focused attention by smacking his palm into the wall, growling, "Nothing!"

Blair started. "Easy, man. No one said this was going to be simple."

Jim glared, not at him so much as at the situation, though he was square in the path of those burning eyes. "Got any ideas, Sandburg?"

"Yeah." Blair half-smiled when Jim raised an eyebrow at his quick response. "Okay, the good agents are busy over there, it looks like, so we're going to zone you out—not all the way, but I want you to focus deeper. Close your eyes." Quietly he guided Jim in using his nose, not tracking like a bloodhound, but getting a general picture of the environment. An uncommon one for humans, true, but many animals relied on scent to tell them what transgressed in an area before their arrival. "Separate out each odor, identify it, and ignore it. Then concentrate on what doesn't belong."

Jim obeyed, wrinkling his nose and forehead, shifting the tiniest bit as he catalogued each scent. After a minute he said, in that low blank voice that indicated his attention was elsewhere, "Okay, I can pick up a couple...flowery scents."

Flowery? "Like perfume, Jim?"

"Yeah..." Scrunched up his nose. "Yeah, could be it. Traces...maybe cologne, too, or incense. Marijuana, alcohol... Something else...like a hospital..." He gasped and then his eyes flew open. Swallowing, he sniffed experimentally and said, "Just got a whiff and it's gone, but it was a medicinal scent. Very faint, but here."

"The drug?"

"Maybe." Jim shrugged. "Or other drugs, they probably gave them something stronger after they were out. Or maybe the men themselves, their clothing, I don't know, but I'd say it's evidence..."

"Good." Blair licked his lips. "So, uh, how do we tell them?" and he jerked his thumb toward the agents at the other side of the warehouse.

"We don't." Jim looked past him, frowned. "Lindsey said she was in a corner, right? Wonder if that's the door." There was a small metal door in the wall behind them. Blair pushed the bar and it opened with barely a creak, leaving him blinking in the sudden sunlight. Jim strode past him, checked the other side. "No handle on the outside, it's one way. That's why it's unlocked. Hold it for me for a minute, Chief, I want to check something." He jogged into the street, glanced around and disappeared into the alley opposite. In a moment he emerged and returned to the doorway.

He grasped something between his fingers. "What'd you find?" Blair asked. In the sun it glittered, a ringlet of silver wire. He recognized it, "Jim, did you see Lindsey's jacket? She had loops like that trimming the pockets."

His partner was nodding. "Found it between a couple of trash cans back there. It confirms that part of her story, at least."

"Yeah. Not that I got the feeling she was making any of it up." Blair ran his fingers through his hair. "This is the real thing, man."

"Looks like." Jim glanced up at the approaching footsteps.

"Got anything?" Pender inquired, the other agent behind him. The detective held out his discovery, then suddenly lifted his head, staring forward intently. He wasn't looking at anything, though; his face showed he was listening. Dropping the ringlet into Blair's hands, he shoved past them and dashed into the warehouse.

The agents blinked. "Where's he going—"

"Don't know, but something's up!" Blair called over his shoulder as he took off after his partner, heading toward the warehouse entrance. Jim crashed through the doors and onto the street. He had pulled his gun, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Stop! Police!"

Blair made it outside in time to see a white van take the street corner fast enough to rock onto two wheels. His partner pelted after it. A gunshot and Blair jumped, but it had been Jim, trying to blow out a tire as he ran. The van disappeared around the block—

He hadn't heard another shot, but suddenly Ellison stopped, slapped his neck, and dropped as if pole-axed, collapsing to the pavement.

"_Jim_!" Blair screamed, his legs finding an extra burst of speed to carry him the rest of the way. He skidded to a halt by his partner, fell to his knees by his side. Jim was lying limp on his back, head tilted up and eyes closed. Still breathing, if heavily. Blair stared at his neck, saw nothing, no sign of the gushing blood he had feared. No obvious wound—it glittered in the sun and he snatched it up, a tiny needle embedded in his throat. Not metal, looked like glass, one end bulging to form a small vial.

"Jim?" He wasn't moving, his eyes weren't opening, and he didn't respond when Blair shook his shoulder. Footsteps behind him, one racing past, the other stopping. He looked up into Agent Pender's light eyes, fixed on the object in his hands. "What's this?"

"Tranq-stun," Pender told him. "They've been popular back East for a couple of years now. Non-lethal but they'll stop who's chasing you—"

"Non-lethal?" He latched onto that.

The agent nodded. "Filled with a heavy-duty tranquilizer, fast acting. Most of them are made to pierce clothing; silent because they're fired with an air gun. Useful piece of equipment for—"

"What kind of tranquilizer?" Blair demanded tightly. Pender blinked and he repeated it, forcing his voice steady, "What kind of drug do they use?"

"A tranq-stun? Depends," Agent Guss answered, jogging back to them. His partner cocked his head questioningly and he indicated a negative with a sigh. "They were out of sight." Turning his attention back to Blair, "There's a couple standard drugs, a variation on a vet sedative is popular now—"

"Call an ambulance," Blair commanded, eyes locked on Jim's still face. "Now!" when they didn't move.

The two agents looked at one another. "He'll be all right," Guss assured him, "They're not lethal; at most they'll put you out for half an hour, unless you're allergic—"

Jim gasped suddenly, body convulsing though his eyes remained closed. Beads of sweat began to form on his pale brow. Blair grabbed his partner's shoulders, holding him still as he growled through gritted teeth, "He's allergic, we need help—"

In his peripheral vision he saw Pender whip out a celphone and dial, giving terse commands to whoever answered. Guss crouched beside him, "He should be all right; I've never heard of a tranq-stun fatality. Though a reaction..." He trailed off.

Blair couldn't see his expression, focused as he was on Jim's face, counting his breaths and ready to act if he choked on them. Skin clammy and his broad shoulders were trembling under his hands. Fast-acting poison, whatever it was. A disadvantage of being a Sentinel, that sensitivity working against him when it came to substances unnatural to his system inside him. He had his fingers pressed to his partner's throat, feeling the pulse thumping unsteadily beneath them, too fast—

It stopped. He froze, for an instant convinced this was a nightmare, had to wake up, anytime now—Agent Pender grasping his shoulders, staring into his eyes, "Do you know CPR?" Behind him Guss was bent over Jim's chest, face calm but determined as he counted off the rhythmic pressure, "One, two, three, four, five—"

Automatically Blair leaned over Jim, pinched his nose shut and breathed into him. Drawing back he let Guss continue, mentally counting with the agent and repeating the breathing when he reached five. "Come on come on come on," he was muttering, subvocally and he couldn't stop himself. One two three four five, breathe; one two three four five, breathe, come on Jim come on, breathe...

Sirens wailing louder, lights flashing in the corner of his eye, scarlet. Hands pulled him back and he resisted, until someone gave him a firm shake. Blue eyes, paler than Jim's, and a different voice, not to mention taste in clothing—"Mr. Sandburg, it's all right, you did it. He's breathing and the ambulance is here."

The agent's words penetrated when he saw the paramedics lift Jim onto the stretcher, swiftly sliding him in the ambulance. He shrugged Pender off, grabbed the closest EMT's arm, "You gotta be careful, he was hit with a tranquilizer, he's having a severe allergic reaction—"

The man nodded, "We know. We'll take care of him."

"Be careful," Blair warned them, making an effort to sound rational or at least intelligible, "don't give him anything, he has problems with most drugs, just make sure he stays breathing—" Sentinels had advantages as well; if their system could survive the initial shock it was quick to compensate and recover. If it survived...

"We'll drive you to the hospital," Guss was saying.

Blair shook his head. "Gotta bring the truck, Jim'll kill me if I leave it in this neighborhood—" He headed toward the vehicle as the ambulance shrieked away, fumbling for the keys. Barely noticed when Guss followed, climbed into the passenger seat next to him.

He did glance over at the younger man, who shrugged, unfazed by his regard, and said nothing until Blair pulled into the street. Then he murmured, "Detective Ellison should be all right."

Blair nodded jerkily, didn't trust his voice so he kept his mouth shut. Hesitating a mere moment, he switched on the siren to follow the ambulance without worrying about traffic. Guss made no comment, though halfway through the drive he pulled out his celphone and began giving quiet directions. To his partner, presumably, since neither of them knew Cascade's streets.

Blair ignored him, all his attention but the little spared for driving concentrated on his own partner. Jim had to be all right. A little thing like this would hardly slow him down—

And they had to know it. It was that thought that twisted his stomach into knots, left his hands numb with cold as he gripped the steering wheel. If they wanted to stop him...they could. He didn't doubt that, no matter how much he might want to. Hang on, Jim, he silently begged. We gotta do this together, partner—hang on, so we have a chance.

As he parked in the hospital lot it occurred to him that his mental plea held the same terrible note as Jim's own voice in his nightmares. Only made sense, he supposed. This was a nightmare, like he hadn't had in years, the very worst sort. He only prayed that Jim could wake from it.

 

* * *

Police Chief Banks hurried into the hospital. He had come the moment his scheduled hours ended—hard to reinforce adherence to duty if the boss broke the rules, and he had had too many appointments to cancel with such short notice. But it had been a long few hours, from the time he learned of his detective's condition until the time he could go see for himself.

Jim was stabilized, at least, he had made sure of that. Had been breathing when he arrived at the hospital and apparently hadn't quit, which relieved Simon to no end. Must have taken a load off Sandburg, too. The chief hadn't heard much more of the story, wanting to get it out of Blair face to face.

Captain Brown was with Jim's partner in the waiting room, sitting next to him in a spot Simon remembered well from years long past. Probably should have carved his initials into the wall—the chairs changed, but he always had seemed to end up in the same place in the room. To his surprise, two other men were also present, the FBI agents who had flown in this morning. They both looked composed and cool, one reading a tattered magazine from the hospital and the other with a science fiction paperback.

According to what had filtered up to the chief's office, one of those men had helped Blair with CPR, the moment there when Ellison hadn't been breathing. Simon had never especially cared for feds; most of the bad experiences he had had with them were not exactly their fault, but after Lash's tricks, Lee Brackett's rogue games, and everything else, he had always found it difficult to trust them. These two could do worse, though.

He took the chair next to Blair's. The consultant looked over, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He hadn't cut it for a while; it made him look younger, a relief to Simon. The day the kid actually looked old was the day he retired. Though this had aged him a few more years. "How's he doing, Sandburg?"

"Okay, last I heard," Blair replied, an edge of exhaustion starting to show in his voice.

Simon nodded. "How about you?"

"I'm fine, Simon." Almost impatiently.

The two agents were inobtrusively watching their exchange. Simon ignored them, turned to Brown as the captain confirmed, "He's been good, sir."

Blair rolled his eyes. "Glad to hear it, do I get a biscuit?"

Simon smiled, would have answered but was interrupted by a doctor entering the room. Immediately the three policemen were on their feet and facing him. He blinked at them, slightly taken aback, but reported swiftly enough, "Detective Ellison is out of intensive care. He's still under; we aren't trying to counteract the drug, given his pharmacological sensitivity, but we can't say with any certainty how long before he regains consciousness. His vitals are strong; we have him on an IV and are going to wait another twenty-four hours. If his condition hasn't changed we'll have to take steps, but I believe he'll awaken before then."

"Can we see him?" Blair asked with barely-leashed anxiety.

The doctor nodded, "The nurse can take you to his room. But first we have some questions; his preliminary bloodwork has come through, and I need to know exactly what he was exposed to?"

The younger agent discarded his magazine and came to his feet. "I can help you with that, doctor. Most recent tranq-stuns use a rocuronium variant—" and he began to rattle off a series of chemical names while the doctor nodded, taking notes on his clipboard.

Blair was already out of the room, Brown behind him, and the chief hurried after the nurse leading them to the private ward. Jim was stretched out on the single bed, other than the IV in his arm and his utter stillness looking well. Simon breathed a quiet sigh of relief, heard both of his men echo it. He and Brown hung back while Blair took the chair next to the bed, put his hand on his partner's arm and whispered, "Jim?"

No response, of course. But Sandburg's whole body relaxed, just the physical contact and the slow rhythm of Jim's breathing calming him. Only a single machine in the corner monitored him, and its muted chirps were hardly noticeable. Simon had seen a lot worse; so had Blair, for that matter. He settled back in the seat with a faint smile at the other two, keeping his hand over his partner's.

"Guess I can get home now," Brown murmured, and Simon nodded, ushered him out before returning to the bedside. He touched Sandburg's shoulder, waited for Blair to look up at him before saying, "You should go get some rest too."

Blair shook his head. "Gonna stay here, I'll be all right. Jim might be disoriented when he wakes; from what Pender said about his own reactions to these things, he isn't going to be very happy, anyway. It'll be better for him if I'm around."

"Pender?"

"Agent Pender," Blair clarified, tilting his head in the general direction of the waiting room. "Apparently he's allergic to them too, but not this badly—that scared me, Simon. They said they knew what this was, but Jim's reaction was way off, even for a Sentinel." He frowned. "Need to talk to the doctors about that...I don't think it was a regular, what'd they call it, tranquil-something—"

"Tranq-stun," Simon supplied. "I heard about them a couple of years ago, didn't know they'd made it onto the street. Not our streets, anyway. Sandburg, what exactly happened out there?"

Blair gave him a quick run-down of the events, including their conjectures about the agents, though he admitted he was starting to believe their suspicions were unfounded. He finished, "Jim might've gotten the van's number; I didn't see it closely enough. Doubt it'll help, though. I've been at the hospital; Pender and Guss were gone for a couple of hours, I think they went back—"

"They wouldn't have found anything," Simon interrupted. He sighed when Blair raised his eyebrows, "Brown didn't tell you? Half an hour after you left the place burned—the fire trucks got there in time to save the buildings next door, but that warehouse is a pile of rubble. From what we've found so far they were storing explosives—"

"Bullshit!" Blair protested. "That place was empty! The owners can confirm it—"

"The company you got the key from isn't the owner," Simon told him. "Rafe did some checking, and apparently they lease the place from an out-of-town corporation, one of Gettering's subsidiaries."

"Gettering Pharmaceuticals?" Blair groaned. "Jim's gonna love that. I thought we shut them down."

"Only the Cascade branch," Simon reminded him. "Of course as far as we know their illegal activities were limited to that one facility, but...and it might be a front anyway. Not all their paperwork is matching up with the computer trail. Rafe's working on it." He glanced at Ellison, wishing he were awake to hear. "In other words, this is bigger than it seems. You and Jim have really put your feet in it this time."

"Don't we always?" with a yawn.

Simon had to smile at that. "Yeah, you do. Sure you don't want to go home and catch some shut-eye? I'll give you a lift—"

"Thanks, but no." Blair settled himself more firmly in his chair. "I'll nap here. Besides, don't you want us on the job as soon as possible?"

"Always," Simon had to admit.

"Then you need Jim up to speed, and he needs me here for that. Goodnight, Simon."

No way to talk him out of it, and Simon understood where he was coming from too well to try. "See you later, Sandburg. Take care of him." Not that he needed to tell him that. Had Blair always been this protective of his Sentinel? Simon honestly couldn't remember. Certainly Jim had been that way about the kid, but he wasn't sure how far the reverse had been true. He thought it might have been, but Blair hadn't had as much opportunity, he usually being the one in trouble.

Apparently seven years of relative peace had broken that trend. Not that Sandburg hadn't been in his fair share of jams in the last few months, but Jim had been in them with him for the most part, and not much more than any other detectives. Cascade was a dangerous place; you expected these things. They had been lucky so far, only a few hospital visits, and nothing serious. This was the biggest they had run into yet, and Simon hoped it wasn't a sign of things to come. He couldn't blame Blair for worrying, though. And his points were valid. Besides, if it were Sandburg in that bed he knew he wouldn't even try to pry Jim from his partner's side.

Exiting the room, he almost ran into the man waiting outside the door. Tall, blue eyes, suit—one of the feds. "Where's your partner?" Simon asked gruffly.

"Still talking with the doctors." The agent cocked his head. "You're Chief Banks? Agent Lee Pender."

Simon took his offered hand with only the briefest hesitation. "Your partner seems to know something about what hit Detective Ellison," he remarked cautiously, remembering his spiel to the doctor as they were leaving.

Pender nodded. "Guss got his masters in biochemistry, worked in the field for a year before he joined the Bureau. If you have any questions he'll try to answer them. From what I've picked up it wasn't a standard tranq-stun—he's doing okay, though?"

"Seems to be. His partner's staying with him."

"Good." Simon eyed him, thinking of Blair's warning; the man seemed sincere, however. He went on, "You know, you don't often see a district chief coming down to the hospital to check on a detective's condition..."

"Ellison's a personal friend," Simon said, refraining from snapping. Hard to tell what he was implying, if anything. "Sandburg, too. I—" couldn't hurt to tell him, "I used to be captain of Major Crimes; they were my men. Old habits die hard."

"I see..." His eyebrows raised slightly. "And you thought of Blair Sandburg as your man. I noticed Captain Brown doing the same thing—"

"What of it?" Banks couldn't help but snap this time. Getting late and his patience was reaching its admittedly short limit.

Pender shrugged. "He is a civilian, right? Department consultant, I understand, but isn't it unusual for him to be partnered with a full detective?" Before Simon could respond to that he raised his hands, added, "I'm not questioning your policy, Chief Banks. Sandburg is a good man from what I've seen, knows what he's doing, and he and Detective Ellison seem to work well together. But I'm trying to get a handle on everything I can, and that means asking questions about what doesn't fit. Civilians working side-by-side with detectives—out in the field too, since he accompanied us on the investigation—you have to admit, it's unorthodox."

Taking a breath, Simon relaxed himself. The agent did have a point, and he was making a particular effort not to sound threatening or condemning. Whatever his motives, the chief had an obligation to answer his queries as best he could. "Blair Sandburg is an unorthodox man," he said. "He and Jim have been partners for a number of years. They're one of the best teams in the department—the best, in my opinion. Blair is a civilian; he's never attended the academy and he doesn't carry a gun, though he is trained to use one. His insight and knowledge is invaluable, however, and he's always given Ellison the backup he needs in the field. They're friends outside of work and that means they work well together—they're in tune with each other, and that's important, you know how much if you've ever been in a sticky situation and you need to communicate a plan to your partner instantly and in secret. They're partners, and if we had ten more pairs like them this city would be cleaned up in no time flat."

The agent's light eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. "Thank you, Chief Banks, though I'm not sure you answered my question. If it works, though...and I understand what you mean about being in tune. As I said, I'm not disputing the arrangement; I'm only curious."

Simon bristled at first, calmed as Pender finished his comment. "Just don't interrogate Ellison," he advised. "When he and Blair first started working together they got some flak about it—Sandburg was younger then, hadn't proved himself, and before he did Jim had to be on the defensive. He never quite got over it."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks." He frowned slightly. "That may explain his attitude—and you can skip the surprised look, Chief. None of you like us—from the moment we arrived this morning, Captain Brown was upset that we came so quickly. You haven't hid it that well. No one's been openly hostile, but you'd be a lot happier if we stayed in Washington. Didn't think pop culture had destroyed the federal image that much; when I worked homicide we usually were relieved to be able to hand the big problems over to the experts—"

"Homicide?" Simon echoed, honestly surprised now. "You were a cop?"

"Nine years on the Boston PD," Pender told him. "Most agents enter the Bureau via the police. You know that."

"I do," Simon admitted. The actual reason for his surprise, that he never really thought about feds having lives outside of their agencies, or histories before they entered them, hardly sounded fair in the face of this man's openness. "It's something we'd remember better if we had someone so promoted ourselves. Why none of us are inclined to trust you—there's several reasons, but the main one is that we've learned to manage on our own, without the 'experts.' Usually it takes a while for the Bureau to bother sending someone—that explains the captain's reaction. And they aren't much help when they do show. This city's such a mess that generally the feds let us hang and get back to more important affairs, like tracking tax offenders."

"Hey, it's how they got Capone," Pender murmured. Despite Simon's obvious anger he seemed neither unsettled nor insulted. "I get what you're saying, and I don't like it any more than you. Unfortunately there's not much we can do about it, except do our best here and now. Your detective and his partner," angling his head toward the hospital ward, "seem willing to give us a chance. What about you, Chief Banks?"

"All right," he allowed, with reservations. "Anything in particular?" Hopefully not more questions. He had the distinct impression that the agent was finding more in what he said and seeing more in his expressions than he intended to admit. There wasn't anything precise in his demeanor to give him this notion, but after so many years as a cop Simon was pretty good at reading people. He had the idea that Pender might be better, however. A detective indeed, as well an agent. Now if only they knew for certain what side he fell on...

"There is one thing," Pender said. "If you will trust me—put an officer on watch by this door." He indicated Jim's room again. "Round-the-clock surveillance. Your men are onto something; you don't want what happened to Ellison to happen again."

Well, if that was all..."I already planned to assign a man to it," Simon told him. "I told you, they're our best team—I'm not about to risk someone putting them out of commission." And they were his friends besides, and in more danger than the agent knew...

Again, he had the definite feeling Pender got that part as well as the rest. But the agent said nothing but, "Good," with a sharp nod, and after wishing him a farewell headed down the hall, presumably to find his own partner. Simon stared after him thoughtfully, wondering what to make of the encounter. It wasn't surprising that Blair had been so vague in his suspicions. There was good reason for them, and Agent Pender seemed to know more than he said, but all the same he seemed trustworthy, remarkably approachable for a fed.

The chief shook his head and proceeded on his own way. He peaked through the small window of the door to Jim's room as he passed, didn't enter but observed them for a minute. Blair had a small book in hand, an anthropology text from what Simon could see of the cover, but he wasn't reading, instead leaned toward his partner. From the way he moved his head and hands he was talking, though Ellison lay there still, eyes closed. Not awake yet, but Sandburg paid that no heed as he continued his one-sided discourse.

The way the man lectured when he got onto a topic that interested him, he hardly needed an audience...but Simon rejected the thought even as he smiled. Unconscious or not, Jim's sensitive ears would still pick up his partner's words, or at least his voice. And Jim always did better when he knew Blair was okay; seven years hadn't changed that one whit. If Blair were in danger he'd probably have woken up already, knowing Jim; he wouldn't allow little things like drugs or his health prevent him from protecting his Guide. A Sentinel thing, or maybe an Ellison thing; Simon never had been able to differentiate the two, no matter how much he studied Sandburg's dissertation.

Some things you don't try to understand. You just thank the lucky stars that they are, and go about your business knowing everything is better for them. With Blair's able assistance Jim would be up and about soon enough, he had no doubt about that, and they would get to work on this, with or without the agents' help. From what Sandburg had been able to tell him, the sooner they got to the bottom of it, the better.

 

* * *

Blair was dozing when Jim finally awoke, early the next morning. "Chief," he croaked, recognizing the even breathing beside him before he opened his eyes.

Sandburg was instantly alert, squeezing his hand. "Jim! How do you feel?"

"Lousy..." Opening his eyes was a mistake. What wasn't blurry spun in dizzying swoops around him. He closed them again. "Got anything to drink?"

The ice chips Blair offered soothed his dry throat and helped steady him a bit, though his head continued to pound. He risked looking a second time and everything had more or less settled. The fog obscuring his vision was lifting, enough that he could make out his partner's anxious blue gaze on him. "I'm all right, Sandburg," he assured him. "What hit me?"

Blair grinned, not trying to hide his relief. "A tranq-stun," he replied with untoward energy, given how early it was. Jim could see the sun just coming through the east window. And judging from Sandburg's position beside his bed he hadn't exactly gotten a full night's sleep, at least not a very comfortable one. Yet here he was, brightly bouncing in his seat as he explained, "Our federal friends told me they're tranquilizer guns, bullets, whatever. Common on the East Coast, not so much here, but apparently their sales are expanding. Anyway, you got pegged, but you're doing okay now. The doctors say you'll feel fine with some rest, though they want to keep you until tomorrow for observation, just in case."

"I don't..." The warehouse, investigating, he had heard the van, pursued it, something pricking his neck and the lights went out. "It was yesterday, right? How long was I—"

"You've been out for about—fourteen hours," Blair supplied, checking his watch. "Which isn't normal...and it wasn't just a Sentinel reaction." Like that he was serious, all business—more than that. All the brilliance faded from his eyes to leave them somber gray, downcast as his voice trailed off.

Jim struggled to sit up, ignoring his throbbing skull. "Blair—?" He grabbed Sandburg's hand before he could pull away, held on and stared into his lowered eyes. "Hey, Chief. Want to fill me in?"

Blair snatched a quick breath, made a visible effort to regain his momentum. "All right—what they found in your bloodstream, it wasn't a normal tranquilizer, not what's usually used. I talked to the biochemist who analyzed it—it was a mixture of several different drugs, all in minute quantities. A couple were in such trace amounts that the doctor swore it shouldn't have any effect on you, but it did, apparently, they all did..."

When he didn't go on Jim tightened his fingers around Blair's. "Sandburg," he said quietly, "I have a right to know—how close was it?"

Blair shook his head, dropped his gaze, but made no effort to free his hand from his partner's grip. "Close," he mumbled at last. "Your heart stopped; we had to do CPR, Agent Guss and me. And then, on the drive here...I was pretty sure you'd make it, man, I know how pig-head stubborn you are, but I wasn't, I didn't know..." He swallowed. "Ji—Jim, the first hour in the waiting room, before the doctors told me anything, I was sitting there and all I could think of was that I didn't want to go through it again, God, I'd do anything not to go through it again. I don't think...I don't know how..."

"Blair—" He was shuddering. Unhesitantly Jim reached out, took his shoulder and drew him into a partial hug, careful not to entangle the IV tube. Blair didn't resist but he stayed stiff, body rigid against the reaction. After a moment he sighed and pushed back, relaxing with a final tremor, as if shaking the tension from himself. Jim watched him, waited for his breathing to slow to a normal resting rate before saying, "I'm sorry, Blair."

He half-smiled. "Yeah, man, like you had anything to do with it. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to lose it on you, thought I had it under control...it was a long few hours in that waiting room, you know? I'd forgotten what it's like, we haven't been in the hospital all that much."

"We've been lucky."

Blair chuckled, shakily and with little humor. "Hate to say it, but I think it just ran out. I've been doing some thinking, waiting for you to get up, and I don't like any of the conclusions I've come to—listen to this, Jim, and tell me I'm crazy.

"First of all, the drug cocktail they got you with was specifically tailored for you, or at least for a Sentinel. It would have knocked out anybody, but nowhere near as hard as it hit you, thanks to your sensitive system. Meaning that not only do they know about you, they were expecting you, sooner or later, and or were waiting to spring this on you.

"Then there was Smith, with a white noise generator or whatever it was—again, he was expecting you. Not only do they know about your senses, but they know how to get around them, how to manipulate them—and they know that you're onto them. The only way I can interpret that is that these men, these people we're trying to chase, are the same ones who took you."

Jim didn't need to hide his reaction; Blair would have seen it even if he had, but went on regardless, "We guessed this already, and we knew that whoever, whatever Lindsey saw might be connected. But I've been wondering...they were so certain you'd be around, be onto this. They were right there at the warehouse, and I don't think it was just to destroy it—"

When his eyes widened Blair smacked his forehead. "That's right, sorry, Jim, didn't tell you that. The warehouse burned, right after we left—whoever it was came back and made sure that if there was any evidence to be found, it wouldn't be there anymore.

"Anyway...I've been thinking. They took a bunch of kids, right, sure. They needed subjects, I'm betting, don't even want to think for what, but they needed them so they took them. What's been bothering me is not only how they did it, but why, and where. They aren't restricted to Cascade. Hell, you were nowhere near here when you...vanished; then you turned up in a hospital in D.C. So presumably they could've gotten them anywhere—Cascade's got the biggest problems but it's not like other cities don't have tons of street kids.

"For the last five months we've been here, working, you've been using your senses, and we haven't picked up the slightest trace of them. They've been leaving you alone, as far as we can tell, leaving Cascade alone, too. But when they wanted subjects they went here—Pender and Guss would've told us if this was happening elsewhere, I think. They picked Cascade...and I've got a bad idea I know why."

"Because I'm here," Jim whispered. His mouth was dry, bitterness on his tongue and it wasn't just the aftertaste of the drug.

Blair nodded, eyes wide and serious. "I don't think they've given up on you yet—I think they're still investigating you..."

"God damn it, Sandburg," he muttered, mechanically and without anger. "You're saying that this is another test—that they took sixty kids just to see how I'd react—"

"Not just...but yeah. I think they needed subjects and took the opportunity to experiment with you on the side, now that your senses are active again...we've already guessed that they let you go because they stopped functioning." Blair drew a deep breath. "You know, in a crazy way this is a relief."

Jim almost choked. "_What_?"

His partner leaned back in his chair, arms limp at his sides. "We knew this wasn't over, right? We've been spending all this time looking over our shoulders, waiting for the hammer to fall. Maybe it has. At least something's happening—they're not invisible anymore. We know for certain they're out there. Know thine enemy, you know, Jim? If they're not in hiding anymore, it makes them that much easier to wrestle..."

"You're right, Blair." Jim met his gaze sharply. "It's not over. Whatever it is, it's only beginning. We haven't gotten any leads; so far we're getting our butts kicked in this match. And I'm not about to assume that we're going to start winning now that we've figured this out—whatever we actually have figured out." Thinking of his confinement to this hospital, for another day at least, he felt his hands clench into fists. "You better be damn careful, Sandburg."

"**_I_** better be careful? Which one of us is bedridden?" But Blair somehow produced a smile regardless. "Don't worry, I'll watch my back. And Simon has an officer posted right outside the door, so you can rest easy." Suiting action to words, he yawned enormously.

Jim regarded him. "Did you sleep much?"

"In this chair? Are you kidding?" Blair shrugged. "I dozed, I'm all right."

"Sure." As if he thought Jim wouldn't notice the dark circles; keep this up and by nightfall he'd look like a blue-eyed raccoon. "I don't quite feel up to running laps myself—why don't you go back to the apartment and catch up on your z's? I bet the doctors will want to prod me for a bit and then I might nap again—this is the closest to a break we're gonna get, Chief; we might as well take advantage of it." It wouldn't be his first choice, but even lying down he knew his legs weren't quite ready to support him, and his head felt muffled, thinking slowed and senses diminished almost to normal range. Whatever the drug was, it wasn't entirely out of his system; he knew better than to push himself. Right now neither of them were ready to take on their enemies.

Reluctantly Blair conceded his point. At Jim's insistence he called the station to have an officer drive him home, after Jim underwent a thorough examination at the hands of a series of doctors, a general practitioner, a pharmacologist, a pulmonary specialist—he lost track pretty soon. By the time they were done he was more than ready for sleep, and dozed off before Blair even left the room.

He was sleeping when agents Pender and Guss stopped by the hospital. They conferred for a moment and decided against waking him, as the doctors advised; nothing they had turned up in their morning investigation warranted immediate attention. They did peak through the window into his room to verify he was asleep, and noticed Blair's absence.

On their way out of the ward Pender inquired about Sandburg of the police guard. Upon learning he had gone home, they had another short discussion while leaving the hospital. It concluded with them returning to the station, where Guss tracked down Jim and Blair's address and departed in the agents' rental, and Pender continued working with Detective Rafe, following the faint trail left by Gettering Pharmaceuticals.

Jim awoke that evening with only the memory of the headache that had plagued him earlier. He squinted out the window at the deepening twilight and sighed; this was going to leave him equivalently jet-lagged for the next few days, not something he cared for. He was accustomed to having his internal clock set to match night and day, not reversed. But at least he was up; they'd probably release him tomorrow. Or else he'd discharge himself; he didn't need any more time in the hospital than what was absolutely necessary.

"Mr. Ellison?" A nurse appeared at the door. "Good, you're awake—you have a call." She gestured to his bedside. He nodded thanks and picked up the receiver, "Ellison."

"Yeah, hi, it's me," Blair replied. "You're up?" Not waiting for the obvious answer, "Good. I got up a couple of hours ago, have been taking care of a few things around here. You'll be pleased to hear you can actually walk into my bedroom now, though I doubt you'd want to—anyway, I figured you'd be waking about now. I'll be right over, is there anything you want me to bring for the night, a book, pajamas—I know you're coming back tomorrow but I thought I'd ask."

"I'm fine, but thanks," Jim said. "Maybe I can get Simon to bring over some files for me to go over—I'm not going to be sleeping much tonight."

"Neither of us are," Blair agreed, without his partner's resignation; a decade and a half of the academic life had left him immune to odd hours. "Good a time as any to get something done—you're feeling better?"

"Almost completely. My senses are all back up, too. You're leaving now?"

"Yeah, that's why I called. Figured I'd find if you wanted anything, and to warn you to send out the cavalry if I'm not there in half an hour. Didn't want you worrying if you called and I was out."

Jim hesitated, "Chief—you haven't seen anyone or anything suspicious, have you?"

"No, and I've checked," Blair assured him. "I'll be careful—I've got my celphone, if I see someone who might be following me I'll give you a call."

"You could call the station, get an escort—"

"Jim," Blair said patiently, "it's dark outside. We don't have the people for someone to play my bodyguard—I don't want to hear that a kid got shot because a cruiser was called off patrol to babysit me. Civilian or not, I am with the police now; I'm one of you. And I'll be careful. Trust me."

"See you in a few, then." Jim hung up, wondering if he should call the station anyway. No, Sandburg was right; they didn't have the resources; even the guard outside his room was stretching them too thin. And Blair had his celphone; he knew how to recognize danger. He could handle what might come at him.

The Sentinel tried to ignore the twisting in his gut that insisted he better be able to.

 

* * *

Across the city at the station, Pender's celphone rang five minutes after Blair hung up. Hearing his partner on the other end, the agent retreated to the corner of the nearly-empty Major Crimes bullpen and murmured, "Yeah, what do you have, Guss?"

"Blair's leaving—he's pulling out now. At a guess he's going back to the hospital. Should I contact him, or—"

"No, just follow," Pender instructed. "And try not to be seen."

"Can do." Guss could, at that; tailing suspects was one of his skills, for all that unlike Pender he had no police experience. The Bureau had tapped him only a year after he had gotten his degree, and he had proven a quick study, possessing several natural talents suited to their work. Two years as Guss's partner had given the senior agent no reason to doubt their choice, though it amused Pender that the younger man, for all his guileless honesty, was as adept as he was at subterfuge.

Knowing Sandburg's destination gave Guss an edge he might need; the consultant was bright, probably a good observer, and if he recognized the car or the plates he'd catch on. Confident that the other agent was up to the challenge, Pender hung up and returned to Ellison's desk to put the files into order, preparing to retire for the night.

He didn't get a chance. Five minutes later his cellular trilled again, and before he could identify himself Guss gasped, "Trouble—get someone here. It came out of nowhere, I wasn't expecting—they must have known he was coming—"

"What?" Pender demanded. "Where are you, what's happened?"

Pressing his ear to the speaker he made out squealing brakes, his partner's hurried voice over them, "They're getting Sandburg, and they've spotted me—damn!" The screech of tires on pavement accompanied the expletive, then a sharp crack and a muffled clatter, presumably as the phone was dropped.

"Guss? What's going on there—talk to me!" the agent ordered.

His partner's voice sounded faint, not just a distance from the phone but fading as he spoke, "Tranq-stun—got Sandburg...accide..." The words trailed into silence, broken by the sound of the car door being opened, a murmur of voices too far from the receiver to be clear, and then a click. The dial tone hummed in his ear.

Pender stared at his phone for a quarter of a second; then, clapping it shut, he took off down the hall.

 

* * *

He was expecting Blair's footsteps by the door any moment now. Instead, Jim heard the trill of the celphone, the officer outside answer it with his name. Making out the low rumble of Simon's voice, he cranked up his hearing and listened.

"Yes, sir, I believe he's awake—" his guard told the chief.

Simon cut him off, "Unless the doctors strongly object, get him up and bring him here." He gave an address on the edge of the industrial sector, halfway between the hospital and their apartment, but Jim wasn't paying as much attention to that as he was to Simon's tone. Tight, strained, as if he were gritting his teeth against overwhelming emotion. Through the phone the Sentinel could hear sirens, both police cruisers and ambulances.

"Yes sir," the officer agreed, hesitantly added, "Sir, what's—"

Jim knew, even before Simon said it, knew it from the chief's tone and more from the nausea in the pit of his own stomach. "There's been an accident. His partner was involved."

"God," muttered the cop, then, "We'll be right over." He hung up and opened the door; by then Jim was already out of the bed, yanking on his jeans.

"I heard," he said shortly, not explaining how, not sure if he could get any more words out. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in his lungs; he quietly gasped for breath, not wasting it on speech as they ran from the ward. The officer had already alerted the nurse at the main desk, who released them without comment, and they dashed out to the cruiser and wailed into the night, lights flashing.

The uniformed officer drove grimly, darting looks at his passenger. Jim registered the tension in the other man's face only on a subconscious level. Civilian or no, Sandburg was one of them, and cops never dealt well with something happening to one of their own. And conceivably this officer knew Blair personally; Blair knew more cops than Jim did, at this point. Jim hadn't had much time to be sociable; he recognized most of the faces around the station, but of those added in the last seven years he could only put names to a few. But Blair made it his business to have contact with as many folks as he could, male and female; one of the reasons for his popularity.

Quite possibly then this man was an acquaintance, and was worried for Sandburg on that personal basis. Or maybe it was police loyalty. Or maybe it was related to the near-panic that flashed across his face whenever he glanced at Jim, not daring to meet his eyes. Most cops understood what it was like to lose a partner, could imagine it even if they had never experienced it. Loss of a friend overlaid with the horror of the reminder that it might have been you, and magnified by the terrible realization that it **should** have been you, that you had failed someone who had trusted you.

But it wasn't that at all, it wasn't any of those logical emotions freezing his veins. Nothing so sure, touches of them all, but more a deeper, instinctual terror, a dread he couldn't even name, an emptiness in his soul. An accident, was all Simon had said, but Jim knew from the very straightforward way he had spoken the word how terribly much it implied.

How long could this ride take? The address hadn't been that far from the hospital but it felt like they had been driving for hours, and the buildings they passed, lit windows square beacons in the night, all looked the same. He wanted to be there now—or he didn't want to go at all, but he had no choice.

Blocks away he heard the sirens, but though he identified the distinctive howl of a firetruck it didn't register what that meant until they reached the site. The street was cordoned off, blocked by a cruiser at either end, with a fire engine and an ambulance flashing red strobes in the middle.

Between the vehicles and their own cruiser was the accident. Dark figures scurried before it, but Jim barely registered their presence as he climbed from the seat, eyes fixed on the flames rising into the night. Pupils contracting as he stared into the inferno, he made out the blackened, twisted wreckage of three separate vehicles, all small cars, two end to end and the third smashed into the driver's side of the first car. As he walked forward a distant part of his mind analyzed the arrangement, inferring the sequence of events leading to it. Appeared as if one driver had ignored the red light and slammed into the other as it passed the corner, and the car behind the latter must have been going too fast to brake and rear-ended—the accident might have been fatal regardless, but one of the gas tanks must have ignited and with the fire it was guaranteed no one had survived...

The ambulance and paramedics stood patiently by while the firemen sprayed white foam over the blaze, but it was too late to do any good and by the grim set of their jaws all present understood this. Jim stumbled, so focused on the flickering flames that he wasn't aware of bumping into another man until that individual took his arms, shook him.

Dark face interrupting his view, when he had almost glimpsed a figure within the fire, and he growled, "Get out of my way—" and tried to shove past.

The man before him was stronger than that, holding on grimly, and finally his voice and face made an impression. Simon, gripping his shoulders, "--keep it together, Jim, you've gotta hold it together. Don't zone on me, you hear me, don't zone."

Stiffly he nodded, swallowed and spoke, never taking his eyes off the flames. "What happened?"

"We don't know." Simon's voice was hoarse with the acrid smoke; it must have been the ash too that made his eyes water, "We just got here—but the middle car," and he looked to the side-swiped vehicle, the driver's door crumpled like a tin can, "we've identified the plates—it's Blair's, Jim. It was his car..."

_No_. He couldn't even say it aloud, shook his head blindly. Not like this, a simple accident, not at all what they had been expecting—it couldn't be. All the dangers they had faced, that it would be this that killed him—No. He lurched forward, Simon stepping from his path but staying close to his side, attentive as he approached the fire. Probably making sure his city's Sentinel didn't take a plunge into the flames which had stolen his partner—_save your strength, Simon. Damn lot of good a Sentinel will do you, without a Guide—damn lot of good I can do anyone, without Blair—_

It couldn't be. He snapped his vision into high focus, stared unblinking into the fire until he could make out the bent and charred rectangle of metal fallen from the back of the second vehicle. The paint had burned off but the imprint remained and he read the numbers. Blair's, and the contorted vehicle might have at one time been the shape of his Chevrolet. He would have taken this street on his way to the hospital, on his way to Jim, only he never had made it...

Oh God, no. Unable to stop himself, he turned his gaze from the plate to the car itself, squinted through the dying blaze and spied the blackened, gnarled form laying across the front seats. A body, but the fire had burned hot—nothing here for the paramedics to save, barely a skeleton remaining. His stomach rose and he forced the bile down again, vision blurring. His legs were unsteady; without Simon's hand under his elbow steadying him he would have fallen. Not fully recovered from the drug, it must be—perhaps Simon was saying something similar; he could see the chief's lips moving, but couldn't hear his words, not over the crackling of the fire, dying under the firemen's foam. By the time it was entirely smothered that corpse would be little more than ash, nearly impossible to make a positive identification.

He knew it was a desperate hope, he recognized it as denial, but he couldn't ignore it. Simon's voice and his grip on his arms faded from insignificance to nothing at all as he focused his senses, extending his perceptions where he could not tread. An out-of-body experience, but no hallucination; this was real. He almost could feel the flames flickering over his skin, the red-hot wrinkled metal scarring his palms. Through his senses he crouched over the burning corpse, stared into the embers and ash of the skeleton—

And recognized nothing. The skull was wrongly formed, subtle but different, and the scent of the body, through the smoke and cinders, was human but unfamiliar.

He wrenched himself away, staggered backwards, out of the sensations and Simon's hold. Over the sirens and shouting men he choked, "It's not him—" A body, someone had died terribly here, but not Blair, not his partner—"It's not him!"

Simon's face was pallid under the dark ash and darker skin. "Jim, please..."

"Simon, listen to me." Jim fought to keep his voice from cracking, choking back a cough. "That's not his corpse, you have to believe me. I can sense it, and it's not Blair, I'd know if it was—it isn't!"

"Jim—"

'He's right, Chief Banks."

They whirled at the quiet voice. Agent Pender had broken through the barricade of police and firemen and stood only a few feet behind them, his suit jacket draped over his arm, tie loosened and white shirt streaked with soot. The lines in his face were deepened by the darkness and the tight set of his jaw. He pointed to the wreckage, flames reduced to angry orange embers. "The car behind Sandburg's is our rental. But I'll lay even odds they're not going to find a body in it. This wasn't an accident." Holding up his celphone, he explained, "My partner was driving, and in contact with me when it happened. He didn't get a chance to report much, but from what I got out of the officer who deigned to drive me over, this was all staged. For your benefit, or Mr. Sandburg's."

Simon blinked rapidly as he tried to absorb this. "Then...but...Blair's alive?"

Jim nodded. "Can't say," Pender flatly replied. "But that's almost definitely not his corpse."

"Then where—"

"They took him," Jim beat the agent to it. Pender closed his mouth, bowing his head in acknowledgment of that stark truth.

Simon didn't ask who, only muttered, "My God..." in faint shock. Something flashed in his eyes and Jim wondered if he were remembering another time, another accident—if the plane crash had been arranged, it had never been proved, but when they had taken Jim from his flight they must have known the plane would never reach Cascade. In seven years no one had penetrated the hoax...had they expected something similar now? Ignited the cars to destroy the placed corpses beyond identification. Or had they guessed he would discover the fraud, and this was still another test...

And what had gone wrong, that there had been a witness to their trickery—"Why was your partner here?" he demanded, stepping close to glare down at the agent.

Pender stared back at him with narrowed light eyes, not giving an inch. "He was following Sandburg," he stated unhesitantly. "At my instruction. I was concerned that something might be tried; I thought it was worth the precaution."

"Where is he now?" Jim asked.

Pender's gaze flicked past him to the smoldering wreckage. "If he's not in there, then they took him, too. I'm betting they took him. They don't like waste." He swallowed, the grim set of his mouth drawing tighter. "I'm hoping they took him."

Maybe he wouldn't, if he knew what could happen to him, if he knew about those seven lost years in Jim's life. Death might be cleaner—but Jim wouldn't have wished it on his own partner, either. This was a nightmare, but if it had all been real, Blair dead—this way there was hope.

He cast his eyes off the accident and onto the dark streets, the shadows of buildings extending over the circles of streetlights. Somewhere, they had taken him, somewhere down those streets, out of the city or into its midst, to a place high in the sky or a tunnel deep underground. It didn't matter. He'd find them. He had failed so far, but not now. Before he had been searching for half-remembered nightmares; now he was tracking his Guide. And if they knew anything at all about Sentinels, they knew as surely as he did that there was nowhere on this earth that they could take Blair that Jim wouldn't find him.

 

* * *

Blair awoke in a small dark cell, windowless, with a single sheet-metal door set in one of the walls. There was a cot in one corner but he was on the cement floor. He observed this as he shoved himself into a sitting position, his head spinning slightly but the dizziness was receding. Last thing he knew he had been in his car, heading to the hospital, and then a white van had pulled in front of him, cutting him off. He had a vague memory of squealing brakes, glimpsing two pairs of headlights in the rearview mirror. Then something had flashed through his open window and stung his arm, and everything went hazy—tranq-stun, maybe? They seemed to be much in vogue—

Hearing a groan, he twisted around and saw the man lying on his back next to him. Dark hair, square-jawed young face, gray suit—the FBI agent, Guss. In the harsh light of the bare bulb dangling overhead, his skin looked pale, eyes closed and body limp.

Crouching beside him, Blair shook his shoulder lightly, "Hey, man."

Thick lashes fluttered open and brown eyes foggily met his. "Wha—"

Blair shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"What happened?" Guss got out, then blinked as he realized his query had been anticipated. Struggling to sit up, he knuckled his eyes, looked around the room. "You were pulled over—"

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Only I wasn't speeding. Then they got me with something—a tranq-stun?"

Guss rubbed his temples experimentally, grimaced. "Feels like. The nausea and the headache should go away soon. They shot me right after..." He frowned. "I got through to Pender but I'm not sure if I had the chance to report anything."

Blair cocked his head interrogatively. "So you saw—were you following me?"

The agent nodded. "I didn't see much, a white van cutting you off, and another vehicle coming up behind us, but I guessed they were trying something. We suspected they might; that's why I was following. We just didn't think they'd move so quickly."

"You could have mentioned you were keeping an eye out," Blair remarked without heat. No point in getting mad about it now.

Guss was thinking along similar lines. "We didn't want you to know," he admitted. "We were hoping if you behaved normally they'd have less chance of noticing me."

"And be more likely to make a move." Using the cot for leverage, Blair stood as he concluded, "Setting a trap for them, with me as bait."

Guss winced as he clambered to his feet as well. "We were trying to protect you, Mr. Sandburg. We knew there was a threat and were prepared to act on it; we didn't ever intend to endanger you."

"Blair." When Guss frowned, Blair tapped himself on the chest. "Call me Blair. I believe in being on a first-name basis with the guys I'm imprisoned with."

Guss cracked a smile, surprisingly bright given the circumstances. "It's Terry, in that case," he said, though Blair pointedly hadn't asked outright.

"Thanks, man," he acknowledged the agent's openness. Couldn't forget that for all his professional cool Guss was still a young guy, and unless he was a damned fine actor, he was as lost as Blair as to what was actually going on. Probably had the same panic reaction rising in his gut, even if he didn't have the guesses Blair did about the situation. To stave off that fear he cracked, "Didn't know if you agents had first names—what is it about law enforcement? Just don't like getting personal?"

"Lots of partners call each other by their given names," Guss replied. "Our division doesn't, though." He smiled slightly. "Pender and our director have got me pretty well trained out of it. Causes trouble with my girlfriend, I can tell you."

Blair grinned at that. "'Long as it's her last name and not someone else's, you're doing okay." He prowled the confines of the room, sliding his hand along the plaster wall. Worth a shot at least, but there were no cracks or bumps from a boarded-over window.

Guss watched him as he examined the door, checked the strength of the hinges and tried the handle. Nothing budged, of course, and Blair prepared to see where a good hard kick got them. The agent stopped him, "I wouldn't."

Blair paused, boot already lifted. "What do we have to lose?"

"Breaking your foot, and it wouldn't get us anywhere. Even if you break it down, there's going to be guards outside." Guss sat on the cot. "Hate to say it, but waiting's about our only option."

Crossing his arms, Blair regarded him. "Do you know where we are, then? Or who's responsible?"

"Not exactly, but I have an idea," Guss said calmly. "And so do you." When Blair raised his eyebrows, he went on, "You're handling this pretty well—you were expecting something like it. You have experience with something like this, either you've been abducted before—thought so," when Blair warily nodded, "--and then there's your partner..."

Blair tensed. "What about Jim?"

Guss gazed at him speculatively. Blair saw some of his suspicions mirrored in the other man's eyes; then the agent sighed, "Pender's good at reading people, and he said you were hiding something, the two of you. You knew more than you were saying. He was right, right?"

For a moment Blair didn't answer. Then he exhaled, took the few steps across the room and sat down next to Guss on the thin mattress. "Yeah," he said. "There's something—let's make a deal. You tell me what you know about this," and he waved around their cell, "and I'll give what I have."

"All right," the agent agreed, and wasted no time fulfilling his end of the bargain. "My division investigates a lot of cases that might otherwise fall through the cracks, including missing persons, disappearances and, uh, unusual abductions. We've known for some time—longer than I've been with them, and that's more than two years—that there's an organization which...takes people. Sometimes for twenty-four hours; sometimes for a lifetime."

"'Unusual abductions,'" Blair quoted. "Like aliens?"

Guss almost might have blushed. "Sometimes that's what they're passed off as. Doesn't help us tracking them—but there's not much help as it is. It's an uphill battle all the way—a couple times, we've got incontrovertible evidence against them, and then it disappears. Like that—" He snapped his fingers. "A computer virus crashes our files, or a key witness suddenly can't be located. We've arrested a couple of scientists but they won't testify. Twice now we've gotten wind of one of their facilities, but when we organize a bust—"

"There's nothing there." Blair nodded. "Inside agents?"

"Has to be. No one in our division, but everywhere else—I'm not going to say outright that their operation's government-sanctioned, but they're known in some circles, and assisted, and maybe encouraged..."

"What circles?" he demanded. "How far does this go, where do they work? And what are they doing?"

"They operate globally," Guss said, "as far as we've been able to tell. They're not affiliated with any underworld, but they have connections—your gangs in Cascade, for instance, probably know something of them."

"Yeah," Blair confirmed.

"As for what...we don't know. Tests, experiments—they've got their noses in a lot of things. Mostly investigations that wouldn't be legal, or ethical, or both, for whatever reasons. Unwilling subjects instead of volunteers, torture, lethal studies..." Guss released a breath in a long hiss. "They've got particular goals, we think, but we don't know what." He leaned back against the wall. "The only reason I'm telling you any of this is because here and now it can't hurt. They know about my division; they know what we know, and they're not too concerned about us."

Blair glanced at him sharply. "They probably don't like you very much, though."

"No," agreed Guss. "I can't say I'm thrilled to be here—I got nabbed once before and nearly bought it, and I was shot on another investigation. I think we're in deeper now, though." He said it lightly but the tendons in his neck were taut and his fingers twitched slightly resting on his knees. "So that's what we've got—now what about you?" Turning his eyes to Blair.

The consultant hesitated, but if Guss were an unlikely member of this organization, he would know this already. And if not, he deserved to understand what had happened. "We knew some of this already, my partner and I. Jim was...one of those 'taken.'"

Guss's slow nod indicated he had already guessed. Blair clarified, "He was a special case, I think—they faked his death. A plane crash, I don't know if they arranged it—anyway, he was presumed dead for seven years. I had been partners with him for about three years when it happened...we didn't know, not until half a year ago, when he returned. We don't know why they let him go—and he doesn't know exactly what happened to him. He—his memory was erased, hypnosis or drugs or something. We've been working around it, enough to put together a little—when those kids were abducted, we knew right away what it was. But we weren't...we didn't know exactly what to do. And we guessed they might come after me, but we weren't sure..."

"Why?" Guss angled his head at him curiously. "Why would they come after you—do you know why they took Detective Ellison?"

Blair thought fast. Even here, under these circumstances, he was loathe to surrender Jim's secret. Instead he said, "When Jim...disappeared, I quit working with the police. Maybe, I don't know, maybe they're hoping Jim'll quit without me. He doesn't always work well with people; I'm about the only partner..." He couldn't tell if the agent were buying it; his brown eyes bright but opaque.

Then Guss ducked his head. "It's possible...Mr. Sa—Blair. It's good you know what we've gotten into, but you understand the risk." He sighed. "Seven years, that's a long time, but it's better than being dead. And it's possibly the most we have to look forward to—I'm sure Jim is going to be looking for you, and I know my partner won't leave a stone unturned, but it's possible they made it look like we're dead, or that we just dropped off the planet." Rising panic in his eyes, for all his even tone. "I don't know how much I got through to Pender, and I don't know how long we were out; we could be on the other side of the world now.

"There's something else, too: we've never encountered anyone who's managed to escape from them on their own. If they return, usually it's because they're released, like your partner. Sometimes, once in a while, we have a success, but we can't expect—"

"Terry." Blair dared lay a hand on the other man's shoulder, momentarily silencing him. "Easy, man. You can't let it get to you. We're gonna be all right." Not that there were any guarantees, and not that he entirely believed that, but somebody had to say it. And there was a Sentinel searching for him even now; that was enough to give him the confidence he needed to reassure his companion. "I think—"

Whatever confidence he would have offered was interrupted by the rattle of their cell door. With a gulp Blair drew back. Guss rose with an abrupt, jerky motion, his stance at attention; Blair hastily rocketed to his feet to stand beside him. Together they faced the opening door. Two black-clad men entered, both armed, snub-nosed handguns aimed at their prisoners' midsections. The taller of the pair extended his other arm, pointed a gloved finger at Blair's chest, then beckoned.

"Looking for me?" Blair inquired, grateful that his voice didn't crack.

The man nodded. "Chatty bunch, aren't they?" Blair muttered in an aside to Guss, who raised his shoulder a hair in an imperceptible shrug. "Okay, I'm coming," he said louder, when the man in black gestured again. Obediently he raised his hands and approached; the men stepped aside to allow him to pass. Before he exited Blair turned back, met the agent's eyes and managed a partial smile. "Be careful."

"You too," Guss told him, and then the guards followed Blair out, slamming the door shut behind them.

 

* * *

The bullpen was empty, and he was accustomed enough to the silence that at first he didn't hear the summons. "Jim. Jim!"

Bent over his desk, Ellison jerked his head up to meet Simon's concerned gaze. "Were you zoning?" When he denied it, the chief sighed. "Just dozing off, huh? Man, you're exhausted. Go home, get some sleep—"

Shaking his head again, he said shortly, "Can't. Still have these to check over—"

Simon spared a glance at the print-outs covering his detective's desk, invoices and timesheets arranged in haphazard piles, white paper glaring under the bright desk lamp. "Bet they're easier to read with your eyes open, Jim. Even for you." He picked up a random sheet and scanned it. "Is this all Gettering?"

"Mostly." Leaning back in his chair, Jim rubbed his eyes for a break. Couldn't keep them closed for too long, though, or he wouldn't be able to open them again. "I requisitioned all the corporate records from the last few years having to do with that warehouse and any other abandoned holdings—need to know what other skeletons Gettering's hiding. I'm trying to get their personnel files—maybe they employed Smith. He might be a key, Simon. I did some digging, picked up some talk on the street, and I think he's one of their major negotiators—"

"Whose?" Simon demanded. "You keep doing that. 'They', 'them', 'their' people, 'their' work—you and Blair both. I know, they're whoever the hell took you, but it's been six months now and we still don't have any better an idea—"

"Blair does," Jim said, quietly but it stopped Simon cold.

The chief passed a hand over his face and then dropped it to his detective's shoulder, squeezed slightly and released. "He'll be okay, Jim."

"If I can find him in time." He rocked forward before he shut his eyes and fell into the seductive darkness behind his lids. "We have to find all of them—if Blair was right, those kids are in more danger than he was. He, they want for something—because he's my partner. My Guide. The kids are just guinea pigs—" Hearing someone outside in the hall, he fell silent.

Simon, deaf to the quiet steps, returned the paper he held to its appropriate pile and reached over to switch off the desk lamp. "Blair, the kids, this whole damned city—you're not doing any of them any good at the moment. If the doctors had had their way you'd just be getting out of the hospital now. Sandburg'll get me if he finds out I let you run yourself into the ground, for him or anyone else. Come on, I'll drive you home—"

The door to the bullpen opened. "Sorry for the delay, this floor's breakroom was locked so I had to—" Agent Pender saw Simon, interrupted himself to nod, "Evening, Chief," and continued, "had to go downstairs to find any. Here." He balanced a steaming styrofoam cup on the only available corner of Jim's desk, settled himself on the edge of another and sipped from his own drink. "I've tasted better charcoal, but it's hot and it's strong."

Jim picked up his cup and swallowed a healthy gulp of coffee, deliberately numbing his tongue against both the temperature and the flavor. Simon eyed the agent. "You're still here?"

For a second Pender seemed to be considering a variety of responses, but in the end he only shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because it's going on nine PM."

"Eight hour day, thirteen hour day, what's the difference? You're still here," the agent pointed out. "So's your detective."

"I'm a police chief," Simon replied. "And my detective's a damn fool. They should teach courses on sleep at the academy."

"We don't have time." Jim stood and stretched, ignoring the twinge of pain that shot up his back. "We don't know where they were taken; the more time it takes us to find out..." If they even could, a possibility he ignored with deliberate effort.

He saw understanding and sympathy in the back of Simon's dark eyes; a different kind of understanding flashed through Pender's light ones. The agent had worked tirelessly, helping him wade through and organize the towering paperwork and calling on his own credentials to obtain what they needed from the corporation. He offered and returned comments readily, and was quick to respond to Simon's words now, but for most of their hours at work he had been as silent as the detective.

Jim found himself wishing for Blair's bright presence, not to mention his energy; one hardly needed coffee with Sandburg around, when he was around... He shook off the sudden stab of fear that accompanied the thought, then winced as a sharp trill pierced his sensitive ears.

Pender grabbed his celphone and gave his name. His shoulders fell minutely as he recognized the caller; Jim gave an inaudible sigh as the agent nodded to them stiffly. "Excuse me, I'll take this in the hall."

Simon watched him go, then turned to his detective and muttered, "Jim, you sure about him?"

Gaze on the frosted glass of the bullpen door, Jim considered it. He was working with the man because he was helpful, and he needed the assistance from whatever source he could find it from. Whether or not the agent was reliable in more important matters hadn't really entered into his thoughts. "He's helped me out so far. I'll be careful."

Through the door he could easily make out Pender's low voice; the person he spoke to wasn't much more difficult to hear, especially as she was making no effort to keep her own down. "What the hell happened, Pender? Dubz and I just got word—what's Guss done now?"

"Not his fault, this time," the agent informed whoever it was. "They took him—seems like they might be an active presence around here. We don't know where—"

"We?" The woman sounded no less hostile than Simon regarding Pender. Probably one of the agent's colleagues, Jim decided.

"A local detective. His partner was taken at the same time—it looks as if they almost botched the abduction, took Guss to cover their tracks. I had assigned him to watch Sandburg."

"The partner?"

"Yeah. A civilian." Pender's even tone was threaded with anger. "Don't know what they want with him, but it might have to do with his partner—I'm not sure. Things are screwy around here and the local cops don't care for me all that much, but they're doing what they can."

"And so are you." The woman sounded considerably calmer than she had, while Pender's agitation was rising. There was unmistakable compassion underlying her words as she told him, "Lee, you gotta keep your cool. Blaming yourself isn't going to help Guss or that cop or those kids they took." Jim started at the familiarity of the admonishment, shot a glance at Simon and then realized he couldn't have heard. He attended to the woman, who went on, "You want Dubz and me there in Cascade?"

"You've got a case." Pender's tone had fallen back to its level baseline.

"This is bigger," his colleague told him. "The director already gave us the go-ahead, if we're needed."

"Don't know what you'd be able to do. We're just spinning our wheels now, and like I said I got backup here with the locals, even if they're not best buds." Pender paused. "But thanks, Erin."

"We'll be there when you and Guss need us," she replied. "And you're gonna find him. These bastards won't get away with this." The phone clicked as she disconnected.

Jim snapped his attention back into the room to find Simon watching him intently, fully aware of what he had been listening to. "Well?" the chief asked under his breath.

Straightening one of the piles on his desk, Jim said, "Tomorrow I'll visit James Modell and see what I can get out of our source."

Simon glared lasers through the wire frames of his glasses, but spoke calmly. "And will you be taking Agent Pender with you?"

"Possibly." Probably not. Lindsey would be even less inclined to talk in front of a fed than she would in front of a detective; getting much out of her would be hard enough as it were. But that would be his main argument against not bringing the agent. "I think we can trust him," Jim said. He hoped they could. In this battle they needed all the allies they could find.

 

* * *

They asked him questions. That was all so far, but Blair knew better than to think that would be it. These were just the preliminaries, the opening rounds. He lost track of how many voices he heard throughout the day—he assumed it was a day. It was difficult to tell, never seeing a window or a hint of sunlight, and having no way of knowing how long he had been out initially. It went on for hours, though, as far as he could tell. A few people, doctors or scientists to tell by their clean white coats and emotionless miens, entered to interrogate him personally; that they made no attempt to hide their faces would have worried him, if he hadn't already been. They weren't planning on releasing him, not in any condition to talk, at least. But of course he had guessed that before.

He answered their questions. The black-clothed guards with their guns, intermittently entering and leaving again, were one incentive for cooperation; a larger one was that he had no reason not to, for the most part. If he went along with them now, played a willing subject, they might let their guard down. And it was possible he only had to hold out until Jim found him.

Possible. Blair sported no illusions. His partner might be a detective and a Sentinel, but these people knew what they were up against. They were experienced with this kind of subterfuge, had handled god knew how many abductions in utter and successful secrecy. Blair didn't even have an idea of where he was; Jim hadn't known where he had been held, or had forgotten if he had. Been made to forget.

In seven years, Blair wondered, would they see fit to release him as well...

But he couldn't lose hope yet. It was much too soon. Instead he answered their questions, but carefully, and not always honestly. Name, date of birth, residence—they must know it already. Test questions for a high-tech lie detector, perhaps? He didn't bother lying,

"Do you know what a Sentinel is?" He couldn't deny that; they must have recovered his dissertation.

But, "Do you know a Sentinel?"--that he could hedge. Possibly, not really sure, I'm an anthropologist, it's not an exact science.

"Have you ever assisted a Sentinel?" Define assist. And how would I know, if I'm not sure I've met one?

At first Blair was wary of denying them, but there was no retribution, and by the end of it he was too tired to care. He was interrupted twice for meals, bland generic food that would have been tasteless even by the standards of Rainier's cafeterias. Then finally the bright lights dimmed and two guards appeared to lead him through a labyrinth of gray hallways. They wouldn't even need locks on the doors; he'd be lucky to find his way out of this rat's maze in a week.

In the back of his mind he was always aware that Jim had been here, or someplace similar...was the complex designed with a Sentinel in mind? Jim's directional sense too was enhanced, a biomagnetic affiliation for north—true in all people but more trustworthy in Sentinels. But that inner compass wouldn't be so effective here, with these twisting, featureless halls. The interrogation rooms too, with their bright lights and flat walls, and the voice distorters some of his questioners had used, conceivably all could have been purposely created to trick and confuse enhanced senses...

Pondering the possibilities, Blair hardly noticed when a door slammed shut, leaving him alone in a small room. Not the place he had been before; this was a partitioned cell, divided down the center by a transparent barrier, its reflection shimmering in the dim light. A cot and a commode defined his space; the opposite had only a metal chair, almost invisible in the shadows. If they raised the light much higher, the transparency would become a one-way mirror, allowing for his observation while preventing him from viewing his observer. But there was no one there now. Raising his voice, Blair asked the silence, "Hello? Anyone around?"

He almost missed the answer. "I'm here."

A quick survey of his quarters located the source of the faint voice, a wall vent a foot square, up near the ceiling. Standing under it, Blair called, "Can you hear me? Who's there?"

"Guss...Sandburg?"

"Blair. Yeah, it's me." They must have done it on purpose, put them close enough together to communicate. These people knew their business too well to make mistakes. "How you doing, Terry?"

The agent's hesitation was more telling than his reply. "All right...how about you?"

"You sure?" Blair demanded. "You sound kind of rough around the edges—what'd they do, what happened to you? I just got an all-day interrogation."

"Got some of that," the agent replied. "Also some tests...medical exams. Might've drugged me... trouble staying alert."

That explained the fatigue slurring his words. Blair ran a quick internal diagnostic of himself and came up green; physically tired but definitely alert. And charged as a high-tension wire, crackling with anger more than fear. They had no right. They had no right to steal Jim away and they had no right to take those kids, and Guss had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, never mind that he had been there of his own accord.

Jim, you better find us, he sent an unspoken order to his Sentinel. We can't let them get away with this. "Just hang on, Terry," he said aloud. "Get some sleep; I'll be fine." He had a feeling Guss was concerned for him, for all they were in the same dilemma. Probably thinking that a federal agent should be better able to handle this kind of thing than a civilian—but Blair had been in worse places. Better this room than Lash's chair, or Golden hallucinations. And better those shadows than seven years of darkness.

He didn't know if Guss dozed off or not, but when he called the man's name again he didn't get an answer. Settling on the cot, Blair crossed his legs and drew several deep breath. He would need rest to endure, but with his nerves singing as they were, sleep would be impossible, unless he could calm down. Mentally droning a mantra, he guided himself into a light trance, body relaxing as his mind rose, above the fear ripping at him with tiny sharp claws, above the anger stabbing him like a burning blade, up to a cool peace. Water, ice, clouds, waves, washing away walls closing him in, the darkness smothering him, the invisible eyes following his every motion.

Though he had never tested it, he had an unconscious conviction that if he could take himself far enough, deep enough, he could touch Jim's soul, cross the barrier which divides one being from another and communicate directly. There was no basis for this belief, except for a few experiences he had never tried to analyze.

Five years ago, when he had fled Cascade, searching for what he thought he'd never find again, he had taken brief refuge in a Tibetan temple. Safe from bitter winds behind stone walls, left alone as he had needed, he had meditated for an entire day. When the window's sunlight fell to evening, his body hungry and cramped, his spirit closer to peace than it had been for almost a year—then he had felt it. The rhythm of breathing in the solitary darkness, the ripple of a remembered voice calling his name.

He had known then, though he hadn't allowed himself to believe it. He had known Jim wasn't dead, and when he had returned to Cascade he had sought proof, telling no one. At last he had been forced to give up, abandon his determination and write it off as a hallucination, nothing more than wish-fulfillment and dehydration. If only he had kept looking—he hadn't been able to achieve that level of focus again, but if it were possible...

Now he didn't get the chance. An external noise disturbed his concentration and Blair blinked, returning to the here-and-now with the rush of calm energy and awareness that proceeded a trance. The lights in the cell had gone out during his meditation save for a single bulb, giving just enough illumination that he could make out a dim figure in the darkness past the barrier.

More questions. "Yes?" he said patiently.

The figure, almost touching the transparency, drew back a step. "Are you Blair Sandburg?" The voice was level, low, female. He hadn't heard it earlier, he didn't think.

He nodded. "You know I am."

"Are you James Ellison's partner?" she asked.

For a moment he debated it, but was fairly sure he had admitted as much already. "Yes."

"Are you James Ellison's Guide?"

That he knew he hadn't heard, in all the questions of the day. Outwardly, Blair managed barely to maintain his cool; if they were monitoring his heartrate they'd have noticed it jump, but maybe they weren't paying attention—"His what?"

She said nothing.

"What'd you ask?" he said. "His guide? I'm his partner, I'm a police consultant. I don't do tours, and he's not blind or anything."

She stepped closer again, pressed one long-fingered hand to the barrier. He features were still in shadow, but her dark eyes glinted, and her teeth when she spoke. "He is a Sentinel, and if you are his Guide then I can help you. If you will help me. I'm not supposed to be here, but I'll return tomorrow to ask you again. Decide what you know by then." Without waiting for a response she strode away, stopping when she reached the wall. Her shadowed face turned toward him and she said, "Continue as you've been doing. The tests will begin after they learn what you know; the longer you're indecisive, the longer they'll question you."

On the other side of the barrier, the door slid open. Blair saw the woman's small shape silhouetted against the ubiquitous white-gray light of the corridors; then it closed and left him alone.

 

* * *

"What did you get?" The tone of Agent Pender's question was deliberately calm.

That of Ellison's reply was not. "Jack shit." Jim pressed his fist against the side of his truck, battling the urge to drive it through the windshield.

James Modell had known what had happened the instant he opened the door, his face going pale when he got a good look at the detective. Jim didn't think of himself as transparent, but he hadn't had to say a thing; the student had spoken for him. "Oh, no, Professor—Blair—"

So Jim had told him, everything they knew, that is, practically nothing. Lindsey had sat on the edge of the love seat, arms wrapped over her skinny torso, volunteering not a word. When they asked her outright she hadn't been willing to talk, but Jim had pushed, and James pleaded with a desperate earnestness that slipped under her walls. At last she told what she knew, everything she had heard on the street, about the suited strangers who occasionally made offers, the ties they had to the organization and the alliance, whatever she had seen herself and heard second-hand. All she remembered.

She talked for an hour and it was still nothing. Suspicions and stories, not a single concrete fact. Nowhere near enough for a warrant, let alone a clue. If she knew the man Smith, it was not by that name. If they had a particular base of operations in Cascade, she had never heard tell of it.

Pender was waiting in his truck outside the building, where he had promised to stay. Whether he had obeyed Jim didn't know. The Sentinel had tried to tune in on him once aurally while interrogating Lindsey, but had been unable to focus his hearing well enough to pick out a single heartbeat over the traffic.

He should have been able to. He knew what it meant, that he couldn't.

Can't lose control, not yet, Blair's counting on you. The whole damn city's counting on you. Get it in gear, man. Angrily he wrenched open the cab door and climbed into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to crack it. "Our informant's a dead end. Got any better ideas?"

The agent's pale eyes flicked from the detective's white knuckles and up to his face, meeting his gaze steadily. "No. I've contacted my own sources; I'm hoping to hear back from them soon. I'll be honest, I'm not all that optimistic. But at this point waiting might be our best option."

"You said you've dealt with this before," Jim said. "These...people, doing this."

"Yes."

"This situation?" Jim demanded. "You ever had your people snatched before?"

"Yes." Pender's response was jarringly straightforward.

"You get them back?"

"Guss is still my partner, isn't he?" The agent arched his eyebrows at Jim's expression. "I told you, this isn't the first time we've run across them. Not by a long shot. And they're dangerous. Guss and I both know that firsthand."

"Have you ever lost anyone?"

There was a pause. "Depends how you mean lost," Pender said at last.

"Dammit, if you want my trust, don't screw around with me," Jim snarled. "You say you know these guys, but I don't think you do. You're playing a damn game, cops and robbers on a huge scale. You talk like you know what you're doing, but maybe you don't. Maybe you like playing the expert, but it's not real to you, no matter how many times you've gone against them. You know what they can do and what they're capable of, but you don't believe they'll do it, you've heard about it but you've never been in one of their cells, you've never seen—"

He had to stop to breathe, and Pender was staring at him. Not quite open-mouthed, and with far too much comprehension in his light eyes. "They took you."

Jim wanted to slam a fist into his jaw, hit him hard enough to knock that revelation from his head. Instead he concentrated on the windshield before his eyes, all the minute imperfections in the glass translucent craters and boulders to his enhanced eyes. "I was returned last year," he heard himself say. "After seven years."

Pender swore, soft but intensely. Jim wondered what his expression would be, but didn't look. "Why?" the agent asked harshly. "Do you know why they took you?"

A secret, his secret—his and Blair's. "Yeah."

He didn't elaborate. And Pender surprised the hell out of him by not asking him to. "Is it why they took Sandburg now, you think?"

"Maybe," Jim said. "Probably. We have to find him." Both of them. Can't forget he wasn't the only one with a lost partner. But a friend...did Pender understand that? Could he? To trust your soul to another, and then have it wrenched away, brutally painful.

The windshield, like ice, clear and cold. Focus on that and not the blaze burning him up from the inside. Specks of black dirt marring the reflection of sunlight, white like snow, a minuscule tundra, frozen, silent...

He tore himself away from his scrutiny of the window glass, all too aware of how close he had come to zoning, how easy it had been to fall into that concentration and how painfully difficult it was to pull himself from it without assistance.

Have to find Blair. Before the abductors vanished, and spirited him away with them. Or worse, but Jim couldn't think that. It wasn't a case of controlling his thoughts; it was his thoughts controlling him. He couldn't conceive of the alternative.

Blair had managed seven years of that not knowing, believing that worst. Jim wasn't that strong himself.

 

* * *

"Terry? Guss? You there?"

The agent didn't answer. Blair slumped down on the cot. He had heard nothing from the other man since their brief contact the day before, though he had called when he had awoken the next morning and again this evening. Perhaps he was still drugged; perhaps they had taken him elsewhere. For tests...

Blair shivered. Not a hair of his head had been touched. Yet. He knew too much to expect that to continue. Once they had wrung him dry in the interrogation rooms they would turn to other methods of information gathering.

Angrily he glared around the confines of his cell. The smooth, metallic walls didn't even shudder under his blows; the transparency reflected his own image back to him. Tangled dark hair and a loose white jumpsuit, which he had found neatly folded by his cot that morning, along with a tray of bland comestibles. Food, water, the basic amenities, in a tiny sterile cubicle. He wasn't a prisoner; he was a damn bug in a jar. A lab rat.

The lights flicked off, the darkness muted by the same single dull lamp. Routine, everything routine. He didn't have a watch but he would bet that the lights had switched off the same time the night before, to the second. And would tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after...

Was this where Jim had been? His humanity swallowed by the precision of a giant machine, its cogs grinding toward an unknown goal. Trapped in a post-modern scientist's take on utopia. George Orwell, eat your heart out.

Deciding that one was worth sharing, Blair repeated it aloud for whoever might be listening. He could almost literally feel the cameras' lenses on him, the eyes crawling over his skin. It made him furious, an anger fueled by the knowledge that Jim had undergone this, that they had subjected his partner to this same degradation—and more, God knows how much more. Jim who hated being in offices and behind desks for too long, Jim who might very well never make captain simply because he needed to be out in the field, outside, always moving, protecting, acting, as was his nature.

Jim who now had claustrophobia and nightmares bad enough to wake him regularly for months. They had done that to him. They might very well be doing something similar to Terry Guss now.

And Blair was helpless to do anything about it. He had no choice—

No. He had a choice. Only one, and the risk...but his instincts told him to take it. The instincts that had lead him to Jim Ellison's hospital room, ten years ago; the instincts that had told him Jim was alive, when everyone, including his own self, denied that truth.

They better not be wrong now.

He waited in the darkness until she came again. This time he watched as the dark figure slipped through the door. It closed behind her and he stood. "I'll help you."

Impossible to see her expression, but her shadowy head nodded. "Then you admit it." She saw him glance to the corners of the room. "They won't hear you. This will not be recorded."

Could he trust her in that? But if he was in the rest...and from her furtive aspect in the darkness, she might well have more to lose than he did. "I'm Jim Ellison's Guide," he agreed quietly.

Another nod. "Then you can tell me what I need to know—"

"Wait," he interrupted, before she made her demand. "I want a sign. I don't know you. If I'm going to do anything for you, I want something from you first."

She waited.

"Help Guss," he told her. "He was the FBI agent they brought in with me. He has nothing to do with this; he doesn't know anything about Sentinels. I want him out of here."

"And saving him will win your trust?"

He hesitated, finally nodded slowly. "Give me proof you've let him go, unharmed, and I'll talk to you, try to honestly answer whatever questions you have."

"All right," she agreed. "I'll return tomorrow." She walked toward the exit.

"Hold it," he stopped her, having to ask it, not understanding her calm acceptance of his terms, not even trying to negotiate. As if she were the one imprisoned, and he was in power. Disconcerting, but if he were being manipulated he couldn't see how. "Why are you doing this, what's in it for you?"

"My redemption," she said, and vanished through the door.

 

* * *

He heard a voice he almost recognized, a woman's voice, low, cool, unemotional and unthreatening, and yet it made him shiver as if with fever. He was in utter darkness and yet he could see, sharp corners and flat walls imprinting themselves on his mind like they had been burned into his retina. When he tried to move the walls closed in around him, stifling as they pressed against his lungs. He stood still and they retreated, only enough for him to breathe.

And then he heard a voice he knew, he would never forget. "I know you're looking, Jim. I know you'll find me. I just hope it's soon." A light chuckle, the speaker laughing at himself, which faded into a familiar pattern of soft snores.

He tried to shout to the sleeping man, call his name, ask where he was and how he could find him. But he couldn't speak, his throat mute for all it ached with the power of his screams. He tried to reach for him but the walls pressed in, and the more he struggled against them the tighter they became, until he was suffocating between them—

His shout at last broke the silence. "_Blair_!"

Jim jerked awake, his blankets knotted around him. Automatically he stretched out his hearing, but the apartment was silent. Empty. His room was dark but not stifling, the thin starlight coming through the cracks in the shades enough to illuminate every piece of furniture. No one was there, though he could nearly hear another heartbeat other than his own racing pulse. Echoing in his dreams...

He tried to sleep again, but for all the silence and the dark he could find no peace, and lay on the bed for the rest of the night, his eyes open, thinking, trying to remember.

 

* * *

Special Agent Lee Pender was a patient man, not by nature so much as necessity. In this business it didn't pay to be hasty. Try to rush things and the prey you're stalking might catch wind and run. And every one that got away, a dozen people might vanish. Fifty might die. Big stakes, and he didn't always think he was up to them. Still, he did what he could. There wasn't any other choice. It didn't pay to lose your temper over it.

But he was getting damn close to losing it with Ellison.

He understood where the man was at. Too well—he had seen loss. He knew what it did to people, first and second hand. Years later and Carol's death still lacerated his heart on a regular basis; he still couldn't bear to attend friends' weddings. And his director...no need to look further for evidence of how the loss of one could lose another just as deeply. Ellison and his partner were close, closer than he and Guss, and Pender had considered Terry one of his closest friends for several years now.

And that Ellison personally understood where Sandburg was, what he might be going through—that was a shock, learning he had been an abductee, yet at the same time Pender had been unconsciously expecting it. It explained the quirks, tiny reactions just slightly off, of both the detective and his partner. Why, though—why he had been taken for so long, and for seven years—why would he have been sent back? It didn't make sense. They had a secret, a big one; Ellison had admitted as much. He knew why he had been taken, and why Sandburg was now.

Fine. They were allowed their privacy. Secrets were dangerous, but revealing them could be even moreso. Pender understood that.

But with Guss missing, and Ellison trusting him a couple feet less than he could throw him, and their adversaries' actions not quite making sense, his understanding was stretched to a breaking point. He was going to snap soon.

It would help if he were able to sleep, but insomnia under these circumstances was par for the course. His fellow agent, Erin Gibbons, had called again to chew him out about just that—she knew him far too well—but he had turned it around and nearly blown out her ear with his catalogue of trouble. In the end she hadn't had much advice to offer, and what she did have wasn't much help. Sleep. Eat. Stay calm.

Fat chance.

He met with Ellison in the morning and managed to keep it civil. They went back to combing through old records, any affiliates Gettering Pharmaceuticals might have with the organization they were after. Never mind that they usually covered their tracks far better than that. When straws were all they had left, Pender grasped at them with both hands.

But his frustrations were at the boiling point when the call came. Over the station line; one of the secretaries brought it to their attention. Ellison being occupied, he took it. "Agent Pender speaking."

"Agent—you're working with Detective Ellison on Sandburg's disappearance, right?"

He kept his teeth from grinding with effort. "Sandburg and Agent Guss's abduction, yeah."

"This is Detective Rafe—I'm at Cascade General." Of course—it seemed like the police of this city spent an inordinate amount of time at the hospital. More than his division, even, and that was saying something. "Something's come up."

"Yeah, detective?" Pender prompted impatiently.

"I should've said someone," the detective said. "A man was brought in this morning—they don't know how. No forms were signed, no nurse checked him in—he just appeared."

He straightened up at that. Across the desk he saw Ellison stiffen, almost as if he could hear. Probably responding to Pender's reaction. "Who's the man?" the agent asked.

"Well, I can't make a positive ID, that's why we need you—he's got his wallet, though, and according to his license he's Terry Guss. He's unconscious now, but the doctors say he should be coming around soon, and he'll be—"

Pender hung up before the diagnosis was complete, snatching his coat as he plunged for the door. Over his shoulder he informed Ellison, "Guss turned up—you stay here, I'll go—"

But Ellison was already out of his chair and behind him. It wasn't until they were screaming out of the station in the detective's truck that Pender realized he'd never mentioned where Guss was. Cascade detectives really must spend a lot of time in the hospital, because Ellison set their course there without hesitation.

Pender didn't question it. He had bigger concerns. Guss back, and not Sandburg—why return him at all? Not that he wasn't happy to hear it, but what the hell was going on? And now, with Guss back but Sandburg still gone, how long would it take Ellison to realize that some secrets had to be entrusted to others?

Not too long, Pender prayed. Not before it was too late. It better not be. He wasn't going to live with the responsibility of two more losses.

 

* * *

Guss had been drugged, and bound for a time, the doctors told them, judging from the bruising on his wrists. Other than that he seemed in decent health, physically, at least. The hospital placed him in a single room for privacy and security's sake, with a police guard outside. Not that it would do any good, Pender remarked sardonically. They wouldn't have sent him back if they had wanted anything else out of him.

Under his cynical front, Jim could see true worry in the agent, concern for his partner, perhaps fear that what they had taken from Guss was already too much. At the same time there was an alleviation of the greater dread—his partner was back, alive.

And Blair was still gone. Jim couldn't help but feel resentment, even when he knew the reason for it. The agent didn't have anything to do with Sentinels. He had nothing they wanted. Blair, though...

Guss awoke an hour after they arrived at the hospital. His first reaction after blinking his eyes open was to comment, hoarsely, "So this is heaven. Didn't expect you here, Pender."

"What makes you think you were that virtuous?" Pender replied, with a lightness uncommon to his raspy tenor.

Guss pushed himself up with some effort, ignoring the button to raise the bed. "Blair—is Sandburg here?"

Pender shook his head. "No. He's still gone," Jim said, and hoped it didn't come out as bitter as it was in his mind.

The agent slumped back. "They said...they were done with me. When they injected me—" He paled, though didn't lose his composure. Awfully young, Jim thought in spite of himself. Guss wasn't a kid, and he might have faced death before, but agent or not his heart was racing, even if his face barely showed it. "I thought that was it. Dispose of the evidence, the standard practice. They didn't say anything about Blair, though. I'd hoped—"

"Did you see Blair? Where were you? What happened?" Jim couldn't hold back the questions any longer, and Pender didn't seem inclined to stop him. Nor did Guss protest, though by the time he finished explaining he looked exhausted to the core, and the officer outside had had to keep doctors from entering no less than four times.

The physicians took their revenge by preventing Simon's entrance, when the police chief arrived. Jim went to the hall to confer with him, reporting everything Guss had just related. "So he hasn't seen Blair for the last two days?" Simon sighed at the end of it.

"Approximately—he's not sure how much time it was. But long enough. Simon, he might not even be in this city anymore." And what would they do, in that case? Simon didn't have to ask it. Seven years. They hardly had a clue what they were dealing with here. If he could remember his own experience, anything beyond shadows and shards...but the more he pushed, the vaguer it all became.

Closing his eyes, Jim leaned against the corridor wall. Almost unconsciously he tuned into the voices behind it, sound barely penetrating the white painted plaster. "He's hiding something," Pender was saying. "Though I can't blame him."

"No." Even the single word sounded fatigued. But Guss pushed on. "Blair told me...Ellison'd been abducted. But not why, either."

Jim stiffened. Discussing him...he forced himself to relax. Only natural that they would be curious; his secret still was safe. Simon hadn't missed the reaction, however, and whispered, "Jim? What are they saying?"

"I don't have a clue." Pender almost snarled it. "He's too damn closed—with reason, yeah. But it's not helping. Why'd he be a target like that? Why do they want Sandburg? If we knew—"

"Senses."

Guss's murmur was soft enough Jim wasn't sure he heard correctly, until the agent continued. "They tested me...a few times. Deprivation tests. Put me in an empty room, turned the lights down until it was black, left me there an hour or two. Then sound...loud enough to blast my eardrums, then it dropped to nothing. Testing my hearing. Vision. Pain sensitivity."

Dark room, shadows, flashes of colored lights... Count them, and tell us how many you see. The tests will go faster if you cooperate, Mr. Ellison. How many do you see? How many pitches can you hear? How many pricks can you distinguish on your fingertip—

The fragment of memory was gone quickly as it had come, so swift Simon hadn't even noticed. But he didn't miss Jim shoving away from the wall. "What are you—"

"I have to tell them."

"What? Them?" Simon jerked his head in the direction of the hospital room. "About your senses—you sure you can trust them?"

"I don't have a choice," Jim said grimly. "We need to find Blair. If they can help, in any way..." He didn't need to finish. Simon nodded and stepped aside. Steeling himself, Jim marched passed him to confront the two agents.

 

* * *

"I'm not a Sentinel!"

It wasn't until after he screamed it that Blair blearily realized this wasn't the smartest admission to make. But they didn't jump on it, didn't accuse him of knowing all along about Sentinels—of course they had known he had known; they must have read his dissertation cover to cover. They knew everything he did, more than he did. They'd know for damn sure he had no extraordinary senses.

Yet they didn't quit, not even when he shouted the denial. He pressed his fists to his ears in a vain attempt to block out the rising wail. He hadn't thought sound could be physically painful, not like this—it filled his skull as if to burst it apart, vibrated through his bones until he swore he could feel cartilage tearing free. It wasn't only the volume, but the clashing frequencies, the intensity, a cacophony calculated to hurt. Had to have been designed for that purpose.

Or was it just that he'd never experienced so much noise, so loudly? Was this what it was like for Jim all the time, unless he toned it down...the millions of sounds one hears daily, but all so loud it was impossible to ignore them, tune them out. Computers humming and car motors running and dogs barking and wind blowing—how did he stand it?

How had he stood **this**? They must have tested him similarly. Sentinels were supposed to be able to control their sensory input. He'd taught Jim how, at least a little, meditation, turning down the dials. But had it been enough—he couldn't do it himself here, though he tried. Too much noise to be able to concentrate on blocking it. Could Jim have done it? God, he had to find a better technique, if the Sentinel's everyday experience was one-tenth this bad.

When silence finally fell he couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears and his panting breaths. He'd be lucky to retain any of his hearing after this—hell, he was lucky not to have suffered a heart attack. On his knees in the center of the white-walled room, Blair focused on regaining his equilibrium, mental and physical, before he tried to listen for any sound beyond the staccato thumping of his heart.

The door sliding open and the approaching footsteps sounded strangely muted in the wake of the maelstrom. Hands grasped his arms and jerked him to his feet, not roughly so much as impersonally. He might have been a sack of meat to be lugged somewhere. "Hey, I can walk," he snapped, pulling away, then staggered as the assistants released him. Inner ear must not be fully adjusted yet, he mused as the room tipped dizzily. Noting his hesitation, they took hold of him again and marched him from the room. They wound and twisted through the featureless gray corridors, only to end up in another room seemingly identical to the first, a ten foot cube of blank white walls and a single door. The one difference was the metal chair in the center.

He was instructed to sit by an electronically masked voice. Grudgingly he obeyed. There were no restraints on the chair, an uncomfortable reclining piece with a footrest, reminiscent of a dentist's. Pushing back the more uncomfortable recollections that evoked, Blair sat and waited. It wasn't long before the single light overhead began to brighten, reflecting off the bleached walls to eradicate all trace of shadows, until it seemed the surfaces were afire. He closed his eyes, still seeing a red glow, increasingly bright, and though he put his hands up to his eyes, he knew that protection would soon not be enough.

Don't let them blind me, he plead silently, without knowing who he was addressing. They know what they're doing, I'm valuable to them—I don't want to be blind. I can't guide Jim if I'm blind—

You can't guide him if you're here, his own mind mocked him. You won't escape if you're blinded but neither will you escape if you can see. They know what they're doing to you, and there's no way out of it. Not by yourself. Not until they let you go. And why would they let you go, when you aren't a Sentinel, and have no senses to lose...

Crazy, that fire so brilliant could still be cool, even while it filled his vision. Flickering green and gold, with dark spots widening, painfully. He folded his arms over his face, pressed to his knees, and willed the shimmers away. I don't want to be blind, don't let them blind me, don't let the light blind me—

 

* * *

The agents took the confession of Jim's Sentinel nature better than one might have expected. Guss had probably figured most of it out already, given his experiences, and Pender most likely had deduced much from what he had seen Jim do. They accepted the explanation without disbelief; Simon's confirmation seemed all the proof they wanted.

Not entirely content with this himself, Jim demonstrated, first reading Guss's medchart from across the room, then counting off Pender's heartbeat. Duly impressed by these displays, the two agents paused for several seconds to collect themselves. Then the real interrogation began, a session to make their previous grilling of Guss seem like a casual interview. Pender asked most of the questions, but his partner listened with a quiet intensity belying the fatigue of his hollow-eyed visage.

Jim answered most, with Simon's help. The rest he could only plead ignorance. To this day he didn't understand every aspect of his senses, not nearly as well as Blair did. Nor did he entirely understand the reasons for his abduction; they had never figured that out. It was a subject the agents could shed little light on themselves. "We don't know their motivations," Pender growled. "After this long, I don't care anymore. I just want them stopped."

For over an hour they explained and discussed it, until the sun outside the window had dropped behind the skyline's shadow. With every word he said, Jim felt another second slip by, an almost palpable sensation, as if time itself were brushing past him, rough and bitter cold. It began as a distant impatience, steadily heightening until it grated against him, until every muscle in his body ached with tension. At last the disquietude became too strong. He sprang up, interrupting yet another of Pender's queries. "We don't have time to sit around here and shoot the breeze!" the Sentinel snarled, throwing back his arm. "We gotta get going!"

"We have to figure out where to go first," Simon pointed out. "We're planning our moves—"

"It's not doing any damn good; we gotta act!" Jim snapped, only distantly aware of the rage boiling in his tone. "We gotta get out there—"

Pender protested; ignoring him, Jim made a move to the door, but Simon blocked him. When he tried to push past, the police chief grabbed his shoulders. "Damn it, Jim, slow down! You're not gonna do Blair any good like this!"

That argument registered where Pender's had not. Jim exhaled, breathed in, and out again. Gathering the last remnants of self control, he drew himself up, mumbled, "Sorry, man. I didn't..." He raised a hand to wipe his face, then saw it was trembling. He couldn't steady it, clenched the fingers in a tight fist but the shaking wouldn't stop. "I can't lose it," he said through gritted teeth, to himself more than to those present.

Simon's expression was concerned. "Jim, are you having trouble with your senses?"

"I'm handling it," he said shortly, not wanting to admit how increasingly difficult that was becoming.

Simon knew it anyway. He gripped his detective's shoulder, then addressed the two agents. "This is another problem. Blair's not just Jim's partner—we told you he discovered Jim's abilities, but he also helps him with them. He advises Jim in using them, and controlling them."

"He's my Guide," Jim said. "Sentinels need them. They're part of being a Sentinel. We can't work solo." He literally couldn't imagine what that would be like. Every fiber of his being balked at the thought. Instinct and reason both told him it would be impossible. And his heart knew he would never want to.

Pender's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he filed away yet another piece of Sentinel trivia. But Gus sat straight up, struggling as if to rise. "You said Guide?"

"That's what Blair called it in his dissertation," Simon warily replied.

"That might be what they meant," the young agent said, agitated. "I overheard a couple...doctors...talking, before they knocked me out. They mentioned a guide—I didn't know what they meant. The guide would be ready..." He closed his eyes, concentrating on the hazy recollection. "They said within three days, the guide would be ready for transfer."

"Three days?" Jim echoed. "You're sure?" Guss nodded. "That would've been at least a day ago," the Sentinel calculated quietly. "So we have about two days..." And that was all. Less than forty-eight hours, before Blair was spirited beyond their reach—he'd find him again. Eventually, somehow. It was a certainty deeper than life. But in what condition, when he finally returned... Jim had lost seven years, and his senses. And he doubted they would be so lenient this time.

 

* * *

He wasn't deaf. Blair counted his blessings with a grim fortitude. Still breathing, still moving, though he felt like a dishrag wrung out and hung to dry. He could hear, though he wasn't sure how much of the constant background hum was only in his ears and how much the mechanisms of this place.

He thought he still could see. They had given him a heavy cloth to drape over his eyes, leaving him in his cell in darkness. Hopefully the faint sparks still pulsing in his field of vision were signs that the optic nerve was viable yet. They'd injected him at least twice; he didn't feel drowsy, so perhaps it had been some kind of restorative formula. Heal him up to continue the tests anew tomorrow.

Absorbed in such cheering thoughts, he wasn't sure if he heard the sound of an entrance, but a sudden prickling along the back of his neck informed him he was no longer alone. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

He knew it would be her voice, yet still he tensed. At the same time he had to fight down an improbable giggle. "You're sorry. I bet."

"I argued this wasn't necessary. They didn't believe me."

He fought the urge to turn his head and try to see her face, through the cloth and the shadows. "I'm not a Sentinel. That's all these tests are gonna show."

"They know you're not. They want to check regardless—they're wondering if you might have abilities repressed. To explain why you can understand a Sentinel's."

Blair sighed. "It's not like that. I studied them, that's how I know about his senses. Same as you did. Hell, you must know more than me."

"No, we don't." She sounded more sad than frustrated. "We don't understand at all. He told me that. He was right."

"He—Jim?" Blair sat up, letting the cloth fall from his eyes. Everything was still pitch black; he tried not to strain his eyes piercing that curtain. But damn it, he needed to see her face. "You knew my partner?"

"They released Agent Guss today," she replied instead. "Unharmed, mentally or physically. I can show you the documentation from the hospital. It's the only proof I can offer."

That could be easily faked, not that he could read it now as it were. Did it matter? As long as Terry was okay—and he believed her. No reason to, but he did. Blair rocked his head back against the smooth wall. "You studied Detective Ellison."

She took a long time to answer. "I was assigned to Jim Ellison, to observe him, a year before we released him. I argued for his release. I don't have as much influence now. My relation with the subject compromised me." There was a bitterness underlying her cool tone that Blair was only beginning to pick up on. "Officially I'm not a part of this research. I shouldn't be here."

"Then why are you?"

"Because I'm a scientist. Because I'm human. There's things I need to understand." He heard her shoes click on the hard floor as she shifted. "You're a Sentinel's Guide. I need to know what that means. I know what it is in theory, from your work, and our own. But there's more. Jim—Ellison told me there was. And I saw it myself..." She trailed off without elaborating, then asked, "What does the panther mean?"

Blair shot to his feet so fast he almost banged his head against the sloped ceiling. "How do you know about that?"

"Ellison mentioned it to me. He said it was something we couldn't understand."

"Yeah." He sat on the cot again. "That's about it, right there. It's not science. It's spiritualism, magic, whatever you want to call it. It won't help you. You won't understand."

"Try me."

He could feel her gaze, its intensity, burning through the impenetrable shadows. He answered it. "The panther is Jim's spirit animal. His spirit guide, as I'm his guide in the waking world. It's spirit, but it's as real as I am. As real as Sentinel abilities." She should have stopped listening, ignored the nonsense he was yammering. She was a scientist, one of the soulless investigators of this smooth metal cage. What could she know of spirits and strengths, of the forces which made Jim more than an aberrant mutant—that which made him what he was, an ancient protector, a Sentinel?

Yet she didn't go away, and she didn't interrupt, and when he stopped speaking she said quietly, "How are you related to his spirit guide?"

"How am I? Or how is a Sentinel's Guide related?"

"Is there really any difference?"

No...there hadn't been, not since the day he'd met Jim. Jim didn't have any choice about being a Sentinel, but neither had Blair any in becoming his Guide. Or if he had, he had already made the decision from the first time he'd opened of Burton's book and realized the truth of what he'd found.

Except what if he'd found a different Sentinel? Would he have become that one's Guide? Or would he have waited...after he had thought Jim dead, he could have sought another Sentinel. Another subject, another partner—he could have looked. And yet he hadn't, and he knew that really, no matter how free he might have seemed, he never would have found another. Nor tried to search.

A Guide needed his Sentinel, as much as the reverse was true. He needed to get out of here. If there was a way, any way..."What exactly do you want to know about Guides?"

He could hear pure, relieved satisfaction in her reply. "Everything."

So he started at the beginning, and went on from there.

 

* * *

"I told you, Detective Ellison, I don't know." Lindsey's hands were balled into fists, pressed against her short leather skirt. "I've told you everything—"

"Do you know of anyone who might know?" Jim interrupted, knowing he was being blunt but he had no time to be delicate. It was an hour before midnight, and every second ticking by sounded loudly on his mental clock. They'd spent the evening continuing all lines of investigation, with no results. Returning to James Modell's rooms to speak with Lindsey yet again was a final gambit.

The two agents were waiting outside the building in the car; Simon had come inside with him. Jim had given the girl no chance to question his presence before he began with his own questions. Thus far the answers hadn't changed from the last time he had spoken to her. "Is there anyone you can contact, who might know where their rendezvous points are?"

"Detective," James Modell said apprehensively from his position beside her. "Couldn't that be kind of dangerous for her? I mean, no one knows where she is now, but if they find out..."

"We'll protect you however we can," Jim assured the girl. "Are you willing to try? If you even know someone—"

"I might." Lindsey raised her head to meet his eyes steadily. "I can ask, anyway."

"Lindsey—" James began.

"Jim, you ain't my mom. And no offense or nothing, but this place is boring as hell. I need to stretch." She stood. "I'll try to find out what I can."

"Thank you," Jim said with fervent sincerity.

"Hell, I'm doing this for your partner. Not you cops." Her green-gray eyes flickered over them. "You can't protect me, though. No one'll say shit with you standing next to me. And I ain't wearing a wire."

"We'll stay close as we can. We can give you a beacon, at least," Jim said. "It'll be smaller than a marble, and we can track where you are with it. If it gets turned off or broken, we'll come. Will you do it?"

Lindsey nodded, asking only for a few moments to change. The chief pulled Jim aside while they waited. Ellison had his arguments ready. "Sir, I believe—"

"Save it," Simon cut him off. "I know, you want to go fast as you can. So do I. But what else is up with you? I'm no Guide, but I've got eyes. You're scaring me here, Jim. Before, at the hospital...And I saw you smash that coffee mug at the station."

"I dropped it," Jim said, half-believing it himself. "It was hotter than I thought—"

"Like hell," Simon spat. "You threw it. And I honestly thought you were gonna punch Pender out, when he suggested coming here tomorrow instead of tonight. I saw your fists—bet he did, too. The man doesn't miss much. He gave in for a reason. Jim, you gotta keep—"

"Keep it together. I know." Jim drew a breath. "I'm trying. I'm trying."

Simon sighed. "Is it mainly your senses?"

"Yeah...No." He smacked his open hand against the wall, hard enough to rattle the lopsided picture frame hanging over the couch. "More than that. Simon—they're doing something to him. I know it. I can feel it—they're hurting him."

"Blair?" The chief's whisper was hoarse, and not only to keep from being overheard.

Jim nodded wordlessly.

"Damn it." Simon pushed up his glasses to squeeze the bridge of his nose. "I was praying you weren't gonna say that."

"We have to hurry, Simon. We have to find him now."

"We will," Simon told him, as if by saying it he could make it true. Jim wished he could believe him. But he couldn't believe anything now, except in the most distant corner of his mind, where a soundless scream echoed without end, and though silent, he recognized his partner's voice.

 

* * *

Pender admitted he was impressed. Getting a full explanation of Ellison's abilities was one thing, but witnessing them in action, on the job—the man was something else. He effortlessly tracked Lindsey's progress through the club across the street, more efficiently than the tracker beacon, muttering the little pieces of conversations he made out around her. Enough to prove this was no ruse. Not that Pender thought the detective would joke about this, or anything else, considering the mood he was in.

Searching for his Guide—he hadn't asked for details, but Pender wondered how much more was going on here than just a work partnership. Friendship, certainly, but was the Guide talent genetic, like the senses? Or was it entirely on the Sentinel's side, programmed to protect...and was that the Sentinel, or the man Ellison? Either way—God help those who came between these partners. Or more appropriately Satan help them, because no god worthy of worship would assist those monsters.

"She's asking to go to the back," Ellison reported in a distracted undertone. His gaze was fixed on the empty space before the windshield. "There's a few people in the back room—they're opening the door for her."

Next to Pender in the back seat, Guss shook his head and mouthed, "Think we could learn this?"

"It'd come in handy," Pender muttered agreement. "Maybe he'd like a career change?"

"What are they saying, Jim?" In the driver's seat, the chief focused on his detective as intently as Ellison did on the sounds from the club. They had mentioned zoning out; Pender guessed it was more serious than they had implied, considering how closely Banks was keeping watch. Considering he had come at all—a police chief had plenty of other duties, and this time of night he probably needed sleep to carry them out. But there were always priorities, and Pender doubted rest was generally one of them for these cops, any more than it was for the agents.

"She's asking for someone—not saying a name. They'd know it. There's an older man agreeing—**shit**!!"

Ellison was out of the car before even Banks could react. Pender, on the same side, wrenched his door open and was about to run across when the detective froze, pausing on the curb with his head cocked, like a pointer listening for a bird. "What the hell?" the agent demanded, reaching for his holster. "She in trouble?"

"I can't hear," Ellison said flatly.

"The beacon's still steady." Banks had climbed out, his gun also in hand. "She hasn't sounded an alarm. Should we go in anyway?"

Ellison shook his head. "I can't hear," he said again. "White noise generator. They've used it before."

"So do they know you're here, or are they just paranoid?" Guss asked before Pender could.

"Could be either." The detective stared across the street at the club's flashing windows. "If we interrupt her—"

They wouldn't get another chance, if they missed this one. But if she were in trouble..."Shit," Pender repeated, and for all his experience on this job, he had rarely meant it so whole-heartedly.

 

* * *

Blair talked for so long he drifted into sleep without realizing it. He opened his eyes when they slid a tray of food into his cell, and saw the woman was gone, for how long he didn't know. Then he realized he was indeed _seeing_, with a rush of relief so sharp it hurt.

He ate slowly, not to savor the bland, unidentifiable mush, but because he knew they were watching. He had barely set down the fork on the empty tray when the cell door opened, guards entering to take him to another round of tests. As he walked between the two black-clothed men he wondered what time it was, wherever he was. Had he been transported in his sleep? Every corridor looked the same here, and there were no windows to the outside, only one-way glass mirroring back his sallow face. How quickly time becomes irrelevant—he barely knew what day it was now. Saturday. Should be Saturday, if he had slept every night. There was no way to be sure.

Another empty room, no chair here. He stood in the center and waited.

Surrendered. Externally he was the perfect lab subject, pacified, already resigned to his fate. Internally—in his mind he seethed, he raged. Screamed curses on the heads of those who did this to him, those who had already done so to his partner.

Why wasn't he shouting the invectives aloud? He hadn't given up. Or had he, without realizing—no. Hope yet remained. But not in his hands. And not that woman's, the doctor, whoever she was. But in Jim's...trust his Sentinel. He had to wait now. No other choices.

There was a low rumble, deep enough to vibrate the floor, and with a rising roar the next test began.

 

* * *

At dawn Jim was at the station, having spent the later part of the night in his bedroom as Simon had ordered. The chief probably hadn't meant for him to pace the entire time, but the one time he had attempted to lie down had only succeeded in agitating him further. He didn't want a closer look at any of the visions that flashed by whenever he closed his eyes.

The night before, Lindsey had emerged from the club fifteen minutes after the white noise had come on and obscured his hearing. She hadn't realized they had any reason to be concerned. She had found the person she had sought, and had learned something from him. "He's not shitting me, I know he's on the level. He told me a tract. There's places you stay away from sometimes, right? Well, tomorrow night there's a tract at the dock that's off limits. Something major going down. It could be what you want."

It was the closest they'd gotten to a lead yet. A very good possibility, corroborated by what little data they could gather. There were several warehouses on the docks with dubious ownership and evidence of prior illegal activities, perhaps even linked to the enigmatic forces they hunted now. The deadline was the best hope they had.

It wasn't for another twelve hours, and Jim was going to be hard pressed to survive them sanity intact. He hadn't really slept since his time in the hospital, but he felt no exhaustion, only a gnawing urgency, a humming throughout his body, like his blood were electrified. Keeping his temper was not within his abilities.

Under these conditions, it was damn fortunate that Simon was an understanding man. Jim was well aware that a chief had the perfect right to throw a detective acting the way he did out on his ass. He couldn't help his explosion, however. "What do you mean, only one cruiser? Only three officers—dammit, that's not enough!"

"Keep it down, Jim," was all Simon said, wearily. Behind his wide, paper-covered desk, his shoulders were slumped. "It's all I can spare—you know we don't have enough vehicles or men as it is. There's a sting tonight, and a couple guard duty arrangements. On this short notice, my hands are tied."

"Simon, there's more at stake here than just Blair." Jim strove for the last shreds of his rationality. "Even if he's not a full cop—there's a good chance they're transferring the kids they abducted. We could save them all. But we need the resources to do it."

"I know." The chief sighed heavily. "I've tried negotiating—"

"Sixty kids, that's gotta be worth something!"

"Street kids, Jim." Fatigue couldn't override the anger glinting in Simon's dark eyes. "Lots of people don't care. Far as they're concerned, the city's better off with them missing."

"Then make them face those kids' mothers!" Jim snarled. Not to mention him...not to mention Blair. God, if they rescued Blair but not the kids—he wouldn't forgive the police. Or himself. And neither could Jim.

Nor Simon. "We'll have the agents. With us plus the officers, that's seven..."

"We'll need more," Jim said grimly. "We're going into battle here, Simon. And without the soldiers, we'll lose."

"I'll see what I can do," was all the chief could offer.

Still smoldering, Jim returned to Major Crimes. Captain Brown met him as he walked through the door, and didn't give him time to mention the problem. "The agent says it's tonight—that right? Just tell us where. No way Rafe or I will miss this. We gotta tell the others, too."

Jim stared at him. Beside him, Detective Rafe punched his shoulder. "Why the look, Ellison? It's not like we're putting in that many more hours than we usually do on weekends."

"What others?" the Sentinel asked.

"Any cops off-duty then willing to put in a little extra time," Brown explained. "It's a busy night, but there's a few more at least. And we're talking about the Professor here. Agent Pender didn't need to say more than that to recruit us."

"We'll be there," Rafe said. "We're gonna get him back."

 

* * *

Agent Pender checked his watch, somehow hoping that time had advanced significantly in the minute since the last time he had checked. The closer they drew to zero hour, the harder it became to keep himself from watching the seconds tick by.

"You think there'll be enough of us?" Guss asked.

Exactly what Pender had been asking himself. "There better be." There hadn't been enough time to call in their own forces in the Bureau—what they could have mustered as it were; their division wasn't exactly the highest priority. He couldn't fault Banks, either; the man was doing everything in his ability to make tonight's operation a success. Chief or not, he couldn't pull an army of police officers out of thin air. But if they failed because they were short-handed...

He sighed, then regarded his partner. "You sure you're up to this?"

Guss nodded. "No way I'm not coming. Sandburg's counting on us. Those missing kids, too."

Pender looked at his watch again. "We better get back to the station," he said. "We'll be heading out soon." 'Soon' in this case being over an hour, but his partner didn't protest.

He was crossing the hotel room's threshold when his celphone rang. "Pender."

"Agent."

He didn't recognize the woman's voice. "Yeah, speak up and make it quick."

"We won't be at the docks tonight."

"What?"

She spoke in barely a whisper. "233 West Federal. Ten o'clock this night."

With a click, the line went dead. "233 West Federal," Pender repeated, then turned to meet Guss's questioning gaze. "We got a problem. Come on!"

 

* * *

"233 West Federal Street," Jim muttered as he entered it into the computer. The machine whirred as the system brought up the record. "It's an office complex," he read. "Owned by Polyvision, leased last month to a private company—Gamma Electronics."

"A cover," Pender said grimly, studying the screen over the detective's shoulder. "It's still unoccupied, officially. By the main roads but not downtown. Five stories, with an underground garage—that's perfect. That's what they need, so no one sees them moving people. It all fits."

"Except that's the other side of the city from the docks." Jim looked up as the door to the Major Crimes office opened, then stood as Brown ushered Lindsey in, James Modell behind him. He hurried to the girl. "Lindsey, are you sure about the address of the tract?"

She blinked at him. "Where it is? Yeah, I'm sure."

Pender rose as well. "Is there any chance the man who told you it was lying?"

Lindsey shook her head. "That's where it'll be. Couple friends said so too."

Pender was watching her intently. "Have you ever been to 233 West Federal Street?" he asked quietly.

"Huh?" The girl frowned. "Where's that?"

"Never mind," the agent said, too quickly. He turned to his partner. "Guss, make sure everything's straight with Captain Brown. I need to grab some coffee." He headed for the exit.

Jim addressed James Modell. "Jim, you can't—"

"Ellison." He broke off as he heard his name. Pender's whisper, coming from outside the offices, was easily audible to Sentinel ears but no one else. "Meet me in the break room, ASAP," the agent commanded, then walked off down the hall.

Jim forced himself not to look to the door. "You should go home," he hastily finished his thought to James.

The student met his gaze steadily. "I'm staying with Lindsey, Detective Ellison. She might need help. And Professor Sandburg, too."

"Yeah." Jim regarded both kids, suppressing the urge to say this would be past their bedtimes, or some other inane excuse. Such as mentioning the danger. They both knew there was a threat; he doubted they would listen even if he told them all he knew. "I'll discuss it with Simon. You stay here with the captain."

Once out of Major Crime, Jim went straight to the break room. Pender was not getting coffee but waiting for him, pacing with his arms crossed. He stopped upon the detective's entrance, and stated flatly, "She's lying."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we can't afford to be at the docks. We have to be on West Federal tonight, or everything's going to hell. Especially your partner. And Lindsey knows it."

The agent was speaking in nearly a monotone, but his fists were clenched so hard his knuckles were white. Jim faced him squarely. "What are you talking about? She wasn't lying. I can tell."

Pender blinked at his certainty; then his eyes widened. "Sentinel senses. I get it. You're a walking lie detector. Heart rate, pupil dilation—you pick it all up."

Jim nodded. "I've got a lot of practice. She was telling the truth."

"Except lie detectors can be fooled. If you listen to her, Sandburg's gone for good."

"How do you know?" Jim snapped.

"Just believe him, he knows," said a voice behind them. Guss entered the break room and shut the door. "If Pender says she's lying, she is."

"So what—we're supposed to go to that other place on your say-so? Follow a stranger you said called you up an hour ago?"

"We only have two leads," Pender said. "And we know the first is false."

"So you say," Jim growled. "Except I don't have any reason to trust you—how do I know you even got that call? Why wouldn't they call me?"

"Because it'd be too risky. They're watching you. You know they are. Whoever made that call knew it'd be dangerous to contact anyone in this office. Especially you. We were her only choice—and now this is our only choice. For Sandburg's sake, and all those kids—"

Jim glared at him. "You're nuts. I don't have any reason to trust you. If we're not on the docks and they come there, we'll miss them. We don't have enough men to split up our forces."

"Dammit, that's the point!" Pender drew a deep breath and forced his voice lower again. "We're going to miss them if you listen to that girl."

"We can send someone to West Federal to check things out," Jim suggested.

"If we go now, they'll know we know," Guss responded. "We have to catch them in the act. Catch all of them."

"And if you're wrong—"

"If I'm wrong, we miss them," Pender said. "But trust me. Since we have to put our asses on the line either way, this is our best bet. I'm sure of that."

"I'm going to speak with Simon," Jim said, striding past the agents out the door. It wasn't until he was in the hall that he heard Pender swear and kick one of the folding chairs into the wall.

The chief was as incredulously skeptical as his detective. "Change everything around? Jim, I'm barely managing to get this operation off the ground as it is. It's awfully short notice to switch, just on the basis of some call that agent said he got. Can we even trust him?"

The Sentinel shook his head. "Lindsey wasn't lying, I'd swear. Pender I couldn't tell—he was so worked up his heart was already going a mile a minute. And he's hard to read anyway."

"I've noticed," said Simon. "Jim, have you noticed how coincidental everything about these agents is? They turn up almost right away, but they don't try to interfere with our business, they just help out. Then one of them gets taken, but he's brought back unharmed, no reason given. They seem to know of a helluva lot about these people we're up against, and they accept you being a Sentinel, no questions asked. I've checked with the main Bureau office and they're legitimate FBI, but they might have a side business too. We know the government's got to be supporting whoever the hell we're after, or they wouldn't have gone secret this long. What's the chances Pender and Guss are part of them?"

"Pretty damn good," Jim acknowledged with a frown. 'Trust me,' Pender had asked, but how much reason had he to? This was Blair's life at stake. He couldn't afford mistakes. But the only recourse he had left was to weigh the risks, and pray he estimated correctly.

 

* * *

"You can't!" Pender looked to be fighting a losing war with his temper. "Ellison, I'm telling you, if we're not there—"

"Even if you're telling the truth," Jim said, "you don't have any way of knowing your informant was."

"No—but I know your informant isn't! You have to believe me—" The agent shut his mouth, realizing his insistence was getting them nowhere. He regarded the detective for a long moment. "You're right. You have no reason to trust me. But for your partner's sake I sure the hell wish you would." Pender gestured to his own partner. "Come on, Guss."

"Where are you going?" Jim demanded.

Guss answered for the other agent while Pender shrugged on his jacket. "233 West Federal Street. We'll do what we can for Blair and the others."

"Hold it—" Jim began, but the agents were already out the door.

Simon looked over from where he was discussing final details with Captain Brown. "What the hell?"

Jim shook his head. He stood there by his desk, thinking, while the chief clarified issues with Lindsey and James Modell. "We can't have civilians getting in the way, or in danger. If you won't listen, I'll put you under arrest. Go home."

The two were still protesting ten minutes later when the rest of the officers showed up, gathering in Major Crimes before they pulled out. There were fourteen of them total, including Simon and Jim, all well-armed and decked out in full gear. They organized into two squads, one with Simon and Jim in charge, the other lead by Captain Brown, along with Rafe. Though Henri outranked the detective lieutenant, the two had been partners for years and still worked as a pair more often than not.

Jim watched Rafe and Brown making jabs at each other in an effort to relax themselves and the rest of the group. They were a good team, not as close as him and Blair, but then they lacked the tie of a Sentinel and Guide. Partners nonetheless, with all that entailed. Like Pender and Guss; whatever else could be said of them, the agents worked as a pair. And were friends outside of duty as well, he'd warrant—if they were ever off duty. He had a feeling...

Yes, he did have a feeling. One that said Pender and Guss were like him and Blair in their loyalty to their work, their duty. Was that work what they said it was? Simon was right; they could easily be working for their enemies. Pender could lie with a straight face, Jim would bet, given his coolness; and Guss was more canny than his youth would imply.

But when Guss had been taken along with Sandburg, Pender's concern had been genuine. For Blair as well, Jim had believed—still believed. Both agents seemed to care. Both had seemed sympathetic to what he was going through, before and after they had learned about Sentinels and Guides.

He looked at Lindsey, sitting on the edge of a chair with James leaning on the desk beside her. Even if she had told the truth, she could have been mislead. It was a definite possibility.

The agents could have been mislead as well. But they were convinced otherwise...Pender was certain, and he was no fool. And Guss had faith in his partner's intuition. He seemed an intelligent, logical man; he must have reason for that trust. If they were on the level...

Nine o'clock. Time to head out. He waited until they were all down in the garage, after James had escorted Lindsey back to his apartment, before announcing his decision. "We're not going to docks. Proceed to 233 West Federal Street."

"What?"

Jim looked at Simon and nodded slowly. The chief sighed. "Do as he says. The same plan goes. Surround the place and wait for a signal. Do not act on your own. Report what you see. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

 

* * *

He didn't know where he was. Light disturbed him and he tried to open his eyes, only to find the lids too heavy to raise. He was falling; when he tried to roll over on his side, he tumbled off an edge and kept dropping, the blackness spinning around him.

Drugged, a tenuous fragment of rationality decided. Must be, can't wake up, barely want to. Hope they've got their dosages straight. Doctors should know what they're doing. He'd sue them otherwise. This operation would be over soon. Where was Jim? Chewing out the surgeon, probably. What surgeon? He must have gotten hurt. Happened a lot. Had to be expected. Even a professor ran into trouble now and again. Especially when he became a cop.

He was a cop, right? He'd left the university. Because Jim came back. Had he ever been gone? For a while he had. He'd gone somewhere...they'd taken him. Someone had taken Jim, and now they had taken him. That was where he was now. They'd drugged him. But it'd be okay, because Jim was coming. Rescuing his partner. Some cop, always having to be rescued. He should have stayed a professor. But he couldn't, being a Guide. He had duties. Interfered with his studies but he hadn't minded. Best thing in the world, when Jim came back. From wherever he'd gone.

In lopsided circles Blair's thoughts chased around. He craved sleep desperately, and yet something in him kept him from completely succumbing to the slumber of the sedatives. A danger that wouldn't clearly resolve in his confused mind, but bothered him all the same. He kept seeking Jim, recalling he wasn't here, and thinking he should be here—but he shouldn't, because if he came, if they captured him again...

Someone touched his arm. He heard a voice he barely recognized, female—not a girlfriend, not his mother, but kind, though quiet and cool. "I've done what I can. Trust your Sentinel. He'll come."

Then she was gone, and he was left alone and slipping, closer and closer to unconsciousness, with nothing to hold him aware.

 

* * *

Across the street and a block down from 233 West Federal, Simon, Jim, and two other officers pulled up and parked behind the agents' dark sedan. Jim climbed out of Simon's car and walked to the agents', letting himself into the back. Pender in the passenger's seat twisted around. "About time you showed up."

The detective eyed the agent. "You knew we'd come?"

"Was counting on it. I told you I'm a good judge of people." Pender turned back to peer through the windshield at the shadowed office building across the way. "We haven't seen any activity yet. Can you hear anything?"

Jim listened, then narrowed his eyes. "I think the building's sound-proof. I can hear voices, but not clearly enough to tell what they're saying."

"People inside, but all the windows are dark. Something's up."

Jim contacted Simon and the other cars over the radio and explained the situation. "We'll wait."

A half hour passed in intense silence. Pender's eyes never strayed from the blank office windows; Guss scanned the sidewalk. Jim focused eyes and ears, straining to pick up more than what he had initially heard. He couldn't even tell how many people were speaking. He wondered what advice Blair would give him, were he here.

Probably to listen with more than his ears, look with more than his eyes. Blair had never gone into much detail about Jim's 'sixth sense,' but he had suggested more than once that it was as developed in Sentinels as the other five. The reason he could see the panther. Perhaps too the reason for the prickles on the back of his neck now. They were close. He had been right to trust Pender; he'd realized that the moment he'd stepped from the car. Something was here, something bad going down. Danger.

And Blair, like always, was square in the middle of it. Jim knew that, more deeply, more certainly, than if his partner were seated beside him.

The radio crackled, fracturing his focused thoughts. "We might have something," Brown reported. "There's a van pulling out of the back garage."

"Follow it," Simon ordered.

Pender reached for the radio. "No, stop it. Pull them over; use any excuse. Just get a look in the back. We need to know now what they're carrying."

Jim nodded. It would be advantageous to learn their destination, but if they lost track of the van they might be losing more than just that opportunity. "Simon, I agree.

"All right," said the chief. "Get a look at them."

A block away, sirens split the quiet night. The chase was short, as Jim expected; they wouldn't want to drawn attention to themselves by running from the police. He listened over Brown's walkie as the driver was ordered out of the car. Then Rafe opened the van, and swore.

"What is this?" Brown demanded of the driver, who was making soft-spoken protests. "What are you doing with these people?"

"It's them," Rafe said grimly over the walkie. "Six unconscious kids strapped in the back. The guy's got papers saying they're part of a rehab program going to the hospital, but a week's pay says they're some of those who disappeared."

"Okay. We're going in." Pulling his gun, Jim opened the car door. Pender and Guss quickly followed. Simon, after telling the others to join their penetration of the building, hurried to catch up as they crossed the street. The two agents, with suits over their bulletproof vests, mounted the stone stairs to the main entrance. Jim and Simon slipped around to the side and located a single side door to the garage, padlocked.

Up against the door, the Sentinel could listen inside more clearly. There were a few sets of footsteps stamping about the upper floor, but most sounds came from the basement. Low voices in discussions of preparations were overlaid with the steady breathing of a number of sleeping people. He couldn't hear any clear enough to identify, but this building wasn't supposed to be a hotel.

Pender and Guss had been greeted by a night guard and were now explaining their purpose, showing off the search warrant Simon had hastily signed. They would try to get down to the basement, but would in all likelihood be delayed as long as possible—as long as it took everyone below to clear out. Not long at all.

Their cover was already sabotaged by Brown and Rafe. Speed was of the essence now, more than secrecy. Jim pulled his gun and shot the lock off the entrance, then charged inside. Simon was right behind him.

He had listened closely enough to have a general idea of the basement's layout. Dodging down the narrow hall, he kicked the first door he reached. Weak hinges gave way, and he crashed into the main garage. Then stopped, taking in the sight in front of him.

Nine vans of various shades were parked in a row along one wall. Before them was spread a long length of silvery tarp, upon which was scattered many stretchers bearing bodies, tended to by several white-coated scientists.

"Freeze!" Simon roared. "Everyone, raise your hands!" His gun was aimed square at the man in white standing at the edge of the tarp. Probably the leader, considering his inaction and cool regard. That barely flickered as he lifted his empty hands to the ceiling. The others glanced at him and followed suit, as six more officers pelted through the door. They added cover even as they stared in disturbed amazement.

Striding over, Jim crouched and felt the pulse of the figure on the nearest stretcher. It was purely for show; he could easily hear the pulse of the boy, thumping slow but even, along with all the others.

All unconscious, but none seriously injured...and one missing. He scanned the stretchers, counting rapidly. The scientists gawked as the officers cautiously came forward to cuff them, both police and perpetrators shocked into silence. He could hear all their breathing, all their pulses, but the one he sought—nothing. No familiar dark-curled head resting on a stretcher around him.

His tally came to fifty-four—including the six in the van Brown and Rafe had stopped, that could be all of those abducted. Except for—

"Where's Sandburg?" Simon demanded, looking over the victims.

Jim shook his head. "I don't—"

"Hold it," snapped an even voice behind them. "That's as far as this goes."

They all swung around, to find themselves surrounded. Ten grim-faced, black-clothed men faced the police, each wielding a semi-automatic. "This is a private party," said the one who had already spoken, a broad-shouldered man in a guard's cap.

"So we thought," murmured the head scientist. "Who invited you gentlemen?" He jerked free of Simon's hold, the handcuffs clattering unused to the floor. "Not that we're ungrateful, but this was to be a low-scale operation."

"Heard you'd have some gate-crashers," the guard replied, jerking his head toward the cops being relieved of their arms and corralled in a circle of his men. "We figured we'd be needed."

Before he could go on, heavy steps sounded on the stairs at the other end of the garage. Pender and Guss descended. The older agent's face was a stone mask; Guss looked vaguely guilty.

"You sons of—" Simon began to snarl.

Then the two guards behind the pair appeared, the barrels of their guns against the agents' backs. Pender met Jim's eyes, subvocalizing for only a Sentinel's ears, "_Sorry_."

"Then who..?" Simon whispered.

Jim shook his head. He had already heard the pulse behind the guards, identified the clicking tread on the cement steps. He was unsurprised when she emerged, narrow shoulders thrust back, hands stuck in the pockets of her black leather jacket. Lindsey stopped at the bottom of the stairs and surveyed the scene. "I told you they'd come here," she said.

The head guard nodded to her. "Soon as this is taken care of, you'll be paid."

Jim imagined she would be. More likely by a bullet to the brain than the cash or drug award she was expecting, however. Though it was possible she'd obtained a more secure promise from them; she was crafty enough. Her performance to him, to them all, had been first-rate. Her story of daring escape had seemed believable at the time—it might have even been true. Except the end, when they had discovered her after all...they would have seen the use of such a person. Someone to gain his trust, even fool his Sentinel senses. He had no doubt they had either discovered that ability for obfuscation in her already, or given her some training toward that end. Pender was right; lie detectors could be fooled. Even him.

Still, he was angry with himself that he had failed to realize it before. How had she hidden the coldness with which she looked upon them now? That she was allied with these monsters...

"I'm sorry they came here at all," she was saying. "I tried to get them away."

"It's all right," the head shrugged it off. "I was expecting nothing less from him, to be honest." He fixed an unwavering gaze on Jim. The Sentinel eyed him back, trying to place his unsettlingly familiar face. The angular features, thinning dark hair—he didn't recognize any of it. And yet at the same time he felt he should, felt that he should know this man, should understand the shiver that look sent up and down his spine.

"You don't remember me?" the man asked with a hint of a smile, and Jim shook his head before he realized that the question hadn't been spoken at all, but only whispered, too softly for him to hear from this distance. He knew—he knew he was a Sentinel.

And with that he recognized the man's face, summoned from the hazy recollections of nightmares. Not of his own volition he took a step—not away, but toward the scientist, his fists clenching. Terror in his memories—but stronger was the rage, that this man might have taken Blair, that this man might have hurt his partner, as he had hurt Jim.

"Hey." One of the guards raised his gun warningly. "Stop it—" he began to warn.

The lights flickered once and then were extinguished, plunging the garage into total darkness.

Or close to, but not enough to blind a Sentinel. Jim's pupils snapped wide as a cat's, and he was moving through the dimness before anyone completed an exclamation. Acting more on instinct than any reasoned plan, he rushed the lead guard, knocking him down hard enough to crack his skull against the pavement, then taking the gun from his limp fingers.

He grabbed the head scientist as he was blindly feeling his way toward one of the trucks, probably to turn on the headlights, and jammed the muzzle against the side of his head. "Everyone, stay where you are," he loudly commanded. "Make them listen, Doctor. Tell them I can see them all easily."

"Do it!" the doctor gasped. "He has the advantage!"

Jim saw the one of the guards stumble toward his general direction, and fired a round just over the man's head. "Drop it!" he ordered. "All of you, throw your guns toward the wall opposite the stairs. Now! And Lindsey, stop right there."

By the time the lights came back on a few minutes later, positions had been again reversed, with the guards and scientists unarmed and surrounded by the police officers. Simon was watching Lindsey personally, with Pender and Guss backing him up. Such was the situation when Brown and Rafe came down the stairs with the other officers, and James Modell.

"So it worked?" Brown asked, surveying the scene. "Looks like you were right, James."

The student nodded. "When Lindsey asked to come here...I knew it wasn't right." He stared at her, both sad and honestly curious. "Why?"

She looked at him, then quickly away.

"How'd you know to come?" Simon asked, glancing at James. "Or try that power-out trick?"

James flushed slightly. "Putting the lights out was Captain Brown's idea," he admitted. "He said it would help Detective Ellison. I knew something was wrong. Lindsey asked me to drive her here; then when we got here she got out and ran inside the building before I could do anything. She told me to wait, but she knew right where to go. That didn't make sense, unless..." He swallowed, hesitated.

"Then we found him," Rafe said. "He told us what'd happened, and then he told us you were in trouble—not quite clear how he knew that," he remarked, aiming a sideways glance at the student. "But it's a good thing we listened."

Nodding agreement, Brown strode through the rows of stretchers, making his head-count and coming up short. "So where's the Prof?"

"Not here." Jim grabbed the collar of the head scientist and hauled him up against the wall, so the man's feet barely touched the ground. "Where's Sandburg?" he growled.

"Your partner?" The man raised one eyebrow inquiringly. "Should I know? Why would I be your Guide's keeper, Sentinel?"

"You bastard..!" Jim shook him, but the scientist didn't flinch, meeting his burning gaze with eyes of ice and a faint, superior sneer. _I know you_, that smile seemed to say. _You are my subject. I know every strength, every weakness, every limit you possess._ He knew he was safe, confident that the Sentinel would not harm an unarmed, helpless man.

But there was impetus which this damned scientist couldn't understand, and it was one of those forces beyond his grasp that brought Jim's arm back, fully prepared to smash the man's supercilious face into the cement wall. He saw the doctor through red haze, a scarlet blotting out everything but his rage and its focus. When he drove his fist forward it was with the force to kill.

Simon caught his arm before the blow could land, bodily yanking his detective backward. Jim stumbled, then snarled ferally before he caught himself. The chief ignored it, and ignored the doctor, coughing and rubbing his throat. "Jim," he said seriously, holding the Sentinel by his shoulders to look him square in the eye, "they're not talking. If Blair is here, you're gonna have to find him yourself. You gotta focus."

Focus—that was what he needed a Guide for, to focus, to help him find his center and maintain it. But he didn't have a choice now. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on sound, all the noises around him. Tune them out, every voice, breath, heartbeat, cancel them one by one until only the unknown could be perceived—

He felt himself on the verge of a zone, but then the acrid odor of gasoline on the garage's pavement distracted him, and his eyes snapped open. Under the assault of the brightness and colors in his vision he lost the thread of sound. Staggering back against the wall, he shook his head, gasping harshly, "I can't. There's too much distraction to focus on any one sense."

"Then don't," Simon said fiercely. "Use them all! You're not looking for a stranger hiding somewhere—you're trying to find Blair. Don't look for just anything outside of here—look for _him_. Find him. Do it!"

Jim stared at his chief, then nodded and tried again. This time he left his eyes open, but looked at nothing, ignoring the gray pavement and the people moving across it as he searched for the heartbeat he knew better than his own, the pulse always in tune with his own. A counterpoint of rhythm harmonized with other sound, voice, breath...with other senses, smell and sight and touch, combined to make a whole person, animated by a spirit known always to the other sense, that which they neither of them understood, but always had felt.

There was nothing at first; he was reaching into an abyss, and its emptiness looked back into him with the freezing agony of the void. Then, at the very edge of perception where the panther stalked, he caught it, the merest whisper/touch/scent, more familiar than his own self. Hidden, but close, very close. He moved toward it, striding through the people around him, insubstantial as ghosts next to the reality of this understanding. Vaguely he heard a noise that was his name, as if any spoken name could mean anything compared to this. Someone tried to bar his way, only to be pulled aside by another of the people he only subconsciously recognized, his active mind wholly concentrating on this trace.

He twisted his head around, like a hound casting for a scent, and started in the right direction, but before he took more than a few steps something interrupted him. Not a voice, but an entreaty; not a sound, but a call nonetheless. A summons. _Sentinel_.

Pausing, he listened, not with ears but heart. _Sentinel. Come here, Sentinel_, came the silent, wordless plea. _For your sake. Find me. Come to me, Sentinel. Find your Guide._

There was something wrong about the request, something incorrect, but he could not ignore it. The call galvanizing him, he departed from the route he had followed and headed up, boots pounding on the stairs. He was aware of other steps following, but soon left them behind as he wound his way through the empty corridors and closed doors of the building, climbing more stairs until he reached the top.

The hall was barren as the rest, dark and clean, the new carpets marked by few shoes. The final room at the passage's end beckoned to him. Several flights below, he heard the others, Simon and the rest, searching for him. Before they could arrive, he marched down the hall, lit only by the hazy illumination from the far window not yet installed with shades. His shadow paced at his heels, like a great predator stalking with him.

A pale glow spread out from under the closed door. He put his hand on the cool metal handle, pressed down. The door swung open, and he blinked to adjust his eyes to the gray florescent light which spilled out from the room beyond, banishing the shadow.

The office wasn't yet furnished; panels of an unconstructed metal desk were stacked against one wall, and packing fluff was scattered across the thin beige carpet. In the center of the room stood a woman in a white coat, small, short-haired, with a wan complexion and small dark eyes. She locked these with his, returning his own stare as she spoke. "You came."

He knew her quiet alto, and her pale sharp face, not in his conscious memory but deeper, with the same inner chill that had characterized the other scientist. Yet she stirred something different as well; it was she who had brought him here, and he felt her very presence gleaming at him, as if she were somehow more real than the room around her. An anchor, tying him to the unsteady world.

He had the presence of mind to grab for the gun at his hip, and found his voice. "Where's Blair?"

She didn't twitch when he aimed the weapon at her. "Come with me," she asked. "Quickly, we don't have much time." She brushed past him before he could protest, gesturing for him to follow.

Frowning, he did so, the gun still in hand. She lead him down the hall to the elevator at the end, produced a key from her pocket to activate the machinery and stepped through the doors as they slid open. Once Jim had entered as well, she hit the button for the subbasement. As the box dropped, he looked to her. "What are you doing?" he demanded. Then, when there was no response, "Who are you?"

There almost might have been a flash of pain across her stoic features. "Don't you know me?"

"No," he snapped. She said nothing.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. He was half-expecting an ambush, but there was no one in the shadowed hall outside. Not sure if he should be less or more uneasy, he walked behind her until they reached another door, this one of thick metal. He recognized the absolute silence behind it; another white noise generator.

Out of another pocket, the woman withdrew a small recorder, its red light glowing. She stopped it, then took out a remote control and punched a button. The white noise abruptly cut out, and he could hear sounds behind the door—respiration. One set of working lungs, and a heartbeat, both unmistakable. His mouth opened in shock as he took an automatic step forward—

She entered a combination in the keypad by the doorway, and the lock clicked open. A second later, Jim was through the heavy door, kneeling beside the man lying curled on the cold tile floor. Though he could hear it clearly, he still brushed back the short curly hair to feel for the pulse at his throat. Slow but strong and regular. When he shook his shoulder, Blair stirred, blinking open foggy eyes with a querying, unintelligible mumble.

"I'm here, Blair," Jim said, biting back an improbable laugh, more release than humor. "I found you." He slipped a supporting arm under his partner's shoulders, then looked up at the woman, hardly caring that this was in all likelihood a trap.

But she was neither calling for assistance nor preparing to shut the door, only watching them with a near smile playing over her thin lips. "Take him," she said. "Go, quickly. They won't care. They have another subject now."

He frowned at her. "What—"

She held up the recorder. "You came to me. I have proof. There was a white-noise generator in that room upstairs, as well as a camera. But you found me anyway. I can provide them with a Guide. They won't need him anymore," and she nodded at Blair. "More support is coming. Take him and the other subjects, and get out of here. I'll convince them once you're gone."

Jim glanced down at his partner. "You up for a walk, Chief?"

Blair sat up, listing heavily. "'ll give it a shot," he said blurrily, struggling to rise further.

Jim wrapped an arm around him and pulled him to his feet, taking most of his weight. "I'll guide us here," he said, walking them out the door and down the hall, heading for the stairway he had noticed by the elevator. Grabbing his walkie, he contacted Simon, reporting shortly, "I got Sandburg. We're going to have more company soon; we should get all the kids out now."

"You said you got him? He's all right, I take it." Simon's tone was heavy with undisguised relief. "Everyone's arrested; we're working on moving the kids now—we've impounded a couple of their vans."

"Fine. We'll meet you at the car." He switched off the walkie, then looked to the doctor. "You should turn yourself in."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't do you any good. This way I might be able to." She took a step toward them, reaching forward one hand to almost touch Blair's shoulder. "Take care of him, Guide."

Blair raised his head, fighting back the drugged haze. "I will," he said seriously, then stumbled off down the passage, tugging his partner along. "C'mon, Jim. Le's go."

"You got it, Chief." Jim lead them up the stairs and through the halls out into the street, the night breeze cool against his skin. Not until he had Blair settled in the back seat of Simon's car did he wipe the sweat off his face, try to slow somewhat his rapid panting. His heart was pounding loudly enough for even a non-Sentinel to hear, he was sure.

Blair seemed to hear it, at any rate. Head rocked back against the vinyl cushion, he cracked his heavy lids and looked at Jim. "We okay?"

"Yes." He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt. He hoped he was being honest.

His partner still was chary of relaxing, turning restlessly in the seat. "Feel real out of it," he muttered. "They gave me drugs."

"I guessed that already." He pressed his hand to Blair's shoulder, comfortingly. "You can sleep," he said. "You're going to be fine."

Blair frowned but closed his eyes, only to open them a second later. "Jim—Terry was wi' me, 'til they took him. Sent him back, she said. Is he—"

"Terry?" Jim repeated, then understood. "Agent Guss? He's fine. We got him."

"Good," Blair murmured, leaning back. "He's a good guy."

"Yeah, I know."

Jim waited, watching, while his partner's eyes fully closed and he finally drifted off, snoring faintly. The detective was still seated beside him in the back when Simon, Pender, and Guss arrived a minute later, three handcuffed guards in tow. Blair had slumped down until his head was resting on Jim's shoulder. The Sentinel could feel his slight shifting as he breathed, hear his heart pumping. Those simple signs calmed his tension as no drug or meditation could have.

Simon smiled when he saw them, in spite of all else he had experienced that night. His own blood pressure might never recover, but at least something was right in the world again. "So it's over?" he muttered, mostly to himself.

Jim heard him. "I hope so," he said, then remembered what the woman had said, about having no more need for them. "ot;Maybe for good, it's over."

 

* * *

Three days later Jim was almost ready to believe it. It almost amazed him, how quickly some things could pass by. Blair was fully recovered. They had taken him that night to the hospital, where blood tests had confirmed he was only sedated, nothing serious. He had awoken the next day with nothing worse than a headache, and by the day after he was in the peak of health, no physical sign of his trial. Only the added shadows in the back of his eyes remained; those would not pass. But they were outshone by his usual brightness, and no one but Jim would easily perceive their depths.

There were other matters less easily dealt with. It was to resolve some of these loose ends that they visited James Modell three days after the night they rescued Blair and the abducted kids, for the purposes of answering as much as asking questions. The student had more than a few of his own to pose.

He first politely invited them inside, and thanked them for supporting him through the last few days. The police had officially denied his involvement in the bust, and James was more than happy to avoid the limelight while the mess was sorted out. The press for once had not been duped or bought off, and their coverage of the amazing rescue of innumerable innocents from the forces of darkness was going far in enhancing the Cascade PD's reputation. And 'They' couldn't be liking it much either. Blair had compared it to lighting a flare in a nest of roaches—lots of sparks flying, and things were going to start burning. At long last.

James was content to be left out of it. As were others. "Pender and Guss went back to Washington yesterday," Jim explained in response to the student's query. "Their jobs were done, and they've got some new leads."

"And they'd had about enough of Cascade," Blair quipped. "Pender kept going on about the benefits of being on the other side of the continent—or was that his recruitment pitch to you, Jim?" He sobered. "Seriously, James. They asked us to thank you for your help. And that goes triple for us. If you hadn't realized Lindsey was up to something..."

"I wish I'd realized it sooner," James said. "She fooled me."

"She fooled all of us," Ellison said grimly. He knew he shouldn't entirely blame her—he didn't, entirely. In a way she had been as trapped as him or Blair. He had talked with her, and had her story confirmed by one of the doctors. She had nearly escaped, only to be recaptured at the last minute. Since they had almost been tricked, they decided she would be well-suited to deceiving their main targets. The choice she had been given was hardly a choice at all; freedom, working for them, or relegated as one of their subjects. Few would have chosen otherwise.

But she had never made another effort to oppose them, once she had agreed to do their work. And Jim wasn't ready to forgive her.

Blair had not made his own feelings on the matter clear; he probably didn't know them himself. But for James Modell's sake he made an effort. "She was their tool. We didn't have any way of telling that. And you're the most innocent, James—you had no way of knowing what we were dealing with. It wasn't your responsibility at all, but you still came through. All you deserve is our gratitude. Even though you weren't expecting it, if you hadn't realized that Jim and everyone else were in trouble..."

He looked at his former student, and realized James wasn't meeting his eye. Leaning forward, he tapped his shoulder. "James, you don't have to tell us, but how did you know?"

The student's head jerked up. "I'm not with them, I swear, Professor Sandburg—"

"We believe you," Jim assured him. "But we've been wondering—did you know? Or did you just guess? I've got nothing against good intuition. But..." He glanced at his partner. He had discussed this with Blair several times already; it was Blair who had wanted to know. Jim didn't really care himself. Good enough for him that James had known. But Blair had extracted all the details from Brown and Rafe, and now was watching his former student with a sharp intensity.

James was oblivious to the scrutiny, his own gaze again down on his hands. "It was a feeling, kind of...but it was more. I guess I can tell you...I heard it. When I was sitting in my car, waiting for Lindsey to come back. I was trying to figure out what she was doing in there, wondering if I should go try to look, and then I heard Chief Banks swearing, and the guards saying something about you crashing a party. I knew something had gone wrong, and then I saw Captain Brown and told him so. I didn't tell him why I knew, because, well, people don't believe you when you say stuff like that, generally. But that's how I knew."

Jim, with effort, kept himself from interrogating his own partner until after they finished with James and were returning to his truck. Once outside, he turned on Blair. "What was that about? Did he really hear?"

"You tell me. Was he lying?"

Jim gave a quick shake of his head. "Not as far as I can tell. And he got all the details right. Does that mean—is that kid a Sentinel?"

"I don't know." Blair waited until they were a few blocks away from James's apartment before elaborating. "I'd need to do some tests. He might just have one or two enhanced senses, rather than all of them."

"Did you have any idea of this before?"

"Not really. I wondered...it does explain a few things. I'd wondered why he'd gotten into the drug scene to begin with; he's a pretty together kid. I've encountered several cases of people using narcotics to blunt painful heightened sensations...but that's not really evidence. I didn't have any evidence, really, except..." He paused. "I had a feeling. Nothing I could put my finger on at all. Just...something about him. More than just liking him because he's a good kid who looks up to me. He connected with me." Blair laughed. "You know, it's funny, but he always did remind me of you, somehow. I can't say why, it's not his looks, or his personality. But you've got more in common than just a name."

"A hell of a lot more, if you're right," Jim murmured. "You should show him your diss, Chief. And ask if anything seems familiar to him."

"Maybe I should." Blair ran his fingers through his hair, hesitated then asked, "Jim, do you think he's safe? If they find out...it might be better to keep it secret. From everyone. Better if we never tried to find out ourselves, so they don't have a chance."

"They have their own ways of figuring stuff," Jim pointed out. "They're not dumb. And besides, if you're right—it might be worse for James to just ignore it. A Sentinel without guidance—I know firsthand how bad that can be. I wouldn't wish it on him."

"But he'd need a Guide..." Blair sighed. "Not a career you can really post a want ad for. I wonder how we can help."

"There have to be potential Guides out there," Jim remarked. "And from what you wrote, they'll find their Sentinels when necessary. Like you found me."

"Or you found me," Blair corrected. "And..." He waited for almost a minute before he said it. "She was a Guide, right? Or at least she acted like one. That woman scientist—I don't know her name."

"Neither do I," Jim said, realizing immediately who he meant. "I don't even know if that's because I never knew it, or because I forgot it."

"But she was your Guide."

"I don't—maybe. Yeah, I think maybe she was. While I was there."

"You needed someone." There was no condemnation in Blair's tone. "I don't want to think what could have happened to you without one."

"I don't know what she did," Jim said. "Whether she hurt me, or helped me—I can't remember. I don't remember her, exactly, except..." He had already told Blair how he had found her in the building that night past, and how she had assisted him in finding Blair, as well as what she had said; Blair didn't recall it clearly himself. "What are the chances that it worked? That she convinced them she was my Guide?"

"Don't know." Blair drew a deep breath. "She's got evidence, you tracking her like that, that there is something between you. They might've bought it. Probably. Though if they did..." He couldn't entirely suppress his shudder. "I know they blanked your memory, but I remember what tests they started doing on me just fine. She traded herself for me, willingly..."

"How long do you think..." Jim didn't finish the thought, shook his head to cancel it. "Never mind."

"We should do something," Blair said.

"We are, Chief," Jim told him firmly. "As much as we can. All the time, all our lives. And we'll find more to do. We'll stop them. We won this time—we'll win again. The war, eventually."

Blair let the resonance of that proclamation fade before asking, halfway rhetorically, "How long are we going to be able to keep the doctors? The guards, they'll probably let rot, but the scientists will be sprung within the month, according to Pender and Guss."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Simon's going to be looking for any suspicious activity in the courts or elsewhere. We might have snared them for good. They might not be able to escape this time."

"It sounded like escape was pretty guaranteed, the way the agents talked."

"They're cynics."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "Ever heard of the pot calling the kettle black, Jim?"

"Ever heard of respecting your elders, Sandburg?"

For a moment they both grinned like idiots, taking comfort in a balance that would not, could not, be disturbed, in spite of all that might assail it. Pulling into the police department parking lot, they disembarked from the truck and marched up the steps to the main door. Blair held it open for his partner, muttering quietly as he passed, "Once more into the breach?"

"Together," Jim said. "And we'll win."

"Never doubted it," Blair replied, and with the statement made out of hope a truth. Closing the door, he followed his partner inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Though the fic is completed, this story obviously isn't over yet...but to be honest, the rest probably won't be written. There's too much else on my plate - first and foremost my entrance into that scarifying and thrilling place, the Real World (I graduated last month). And though Jim and Blair will always have a special place in my heart, when it comes to shows, I have the attention span of a gerbil. The Sentinel has held me longer than anything before, and it has been great. I've gotten much out of it, not only watching and reading, but also friendships to last far beyond the show. And of course there's my fanfic - I'm not planning to take this page down anytime soon. Perhaps some new fans will have as good a time reading my tales as I did writing them.
> 
> Thank you, everybody who stuck through this ride - hope you enjoyed it! I've had a blast, these last two years in this fandom, and I hope I've given as much fun as I've found. Youse guys is great! Jags and Guppies forever - so long!  
> XmagicalX  
> 6/16/00


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